


The Mirror

by sammy921



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Action/Adventure, Druids, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fae & Fairies, Fluff, Humor, Mystery, Outdoor Sex, Romance, Scotland, Scottish Character, Sexual Tension, Sexy Times, Soul-Searching, Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-05-24 06:14:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 35,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6144184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sammy921/pseuds/sammy921
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An ancient mirror, one that holds many dark secrets. An over worked college student, who needs a little adventure in her life. A moody highland warrior, with eyes the color of blood. An Epic tale of adventure, love, betrayal, and fairies?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Summary.

Maka has GOT to get a life.

Too many hours studying ancient artifacts has given the archaeology student a bad case of the overachiever blues.

All her friends are falling sappily in love and getting married, while Maka has been elbow deep in dust and cobweb infested artifacts.

Who needs a man when you have living history right?

Over worked, under appreciated, and soulfully lonely, not an ideal recipe..

So Maka figures she must be dreaming when she spies a gorgeous half-naked man staring out at her from inside the glass of an ancient mirror..

But it's just her imagination right?

A trick of the mind?

But when a split-second decision saves her from a terrifying attempt on her life, Maka suddenly finds herself confronted by a smoldering INSATIABLE male, with brooding red eyes and a temper to match.

Heir to the arcane magic of his Druid ancestors, Soul Eater Evans was trapped inside the Dark Glass eleven centuries ago, betrayed by someone he trusted a little too much.

Cursed to a never ending hell, Soul endures the centuries alone and trapped, waiting patiently for the day that his revenge can be dealt.

When the Dark Glass is stolen, though, an ancient enemy will stop at nothing to reclaim it and Maka is unwillingly swept up into the unknown horrors, caught in the crossfire of good and evil forces.

For Maka, the sex god in the mirror is not only tantalizingly real, but he's also offering his protection—from exactly what, Maka doesn't know...

And all he wants in exchange is the exquisite pleasure of sharing her bed...

Could be worse, right?

 

Chapter 1  
Dust, dignity, and dopamine?

Maka sat on the floor of her tiny apartment, surrounded by an endless sea of papers and hopelessness.

Papers littered the floor around her prone form; they were stacked precariously high on the coffee table, they were thrown on the kitchen counter, and covering her bed in the other rooms as well.

Everywhere she looked there were papers and it irked her.

It was her own fault really if she cared to admit it though, but Maka just couldn't say no could she?

Extra credit assignments? Of course she could!

Would she like to intern for her professor? Absolutely!

Extra papers to corrects for her professor? Sure, why not?

New shipments of artifacts to catalog? Count her in!

Could she research the origins of some old ass pottery? You betcha!

Could she stay late this week, and skip her own homework to close up the lab? No problem!

Could she skip eating, sleeping, showering, and all general activities that made a person a normal functioning human being? You bet your sweet ass!

Why did she do this to herself? Maka had this overwhelming need to achieve, and going the extra mile for her professor was a sure fire way to get a good recomendation once she was finished with school.

To Maka's great disdain Archaeology was still considered a man's world; women were often frowned upon in the unusual work force.

Sexist bastards.

She had studied and worked too hard overthe years to have it all thrown away just because no one wanted her because she had ovaries.

She would not be judged by her gender rather than her own work and merit.

Maka's dignity was also on the line, she was not going to give up, no matter what.

Dignity was everything to her.

Damn your dignity, you need a shower more, Maka though bitterly ash she sniffed her ash blonde hair hesitantly.

"Eh not too bad," Maka sighed out loud; feeling a little surprised that the faint smell of her shampoo still clung despite the odds.

Why can't you ever say no? She thought as she stood creakily up from the floor while stretching her arms above her head.

Looking quickly around at her apartments wrecked state, Maka couldn't help when her eyes longingly drifted to her balcony door instead of the work that obviously needed to be done.

She desperately wanted to escape her responsibilities, if only for a moment.

Maybe some fresh air would lighten her spirits?

Making up her mind, she stepped gingerly across the room, taking care not to crincle her paper lined carpet.

After navigating the maze, Maka hastily threw her door open and slipped outside.

Closing the door behind her and sighing deeply, Maka quickly slid down the wall into a boneless heap.

She was happy to be outside, and she greedily filled her lungs with the fresh night air; it was truly a beautiful night.

The loud sounds of laughter quickly drifted up to Maka's ears though, disturbing the once quiet night she had guiltily been enjoying.

Peeking through the rails of her balcony Maka curiously gazed down at the streets, watching as a few people drunkenly stumbled home from the night club down the block.

They all laughed and looked generally happy and care free.

God, when was the last time she had gone out and had fun like that?

It must have been a while, because Maka couldn't recall her last night out with certainty.

Who said you had to party to have fun?

She was very content spending her nights with the new artifacts that constantly flooded the university.

There was no better feeling that cracking open a newly arrived crate and digging into the history of the hidden treasures inside.

Many of Maka's friends did not understand her love for archaeology though.

"Maybe you should try going out instead of spending all of your time with dusty old things"

Her friend Blair had scolded her one evening while Maka poured over an old research book.

"What could be more fun than this?" Maka had laughed jokingly.

"Um sex for one?" Blair had teased her, making Maka blush profusely.

Maka had always thought that Blair was rather wild, and therefore never took her advice very seriously, but her words had definitely had a lingering effect.

"Sex" what a funny concept.

Maka had pondered on it, and realized how pathetic it was that she was still an absolute virgin at her age.

No matter though, Maka had no motivation to rectify that little problem.

When would she even find the free time to find a man anyways?

Maka was pretty sure finding a man was key to making the equation work.

It takes two to copulate, right?

She had more important things to worry about than sex though.

Like mid terms and graduation.

Career goals seemed more attainable than an actual relationship.

Relationships seemed rather hard, there was too much peacocking, head games and commitment involved.

Almost all of Maka's friends were now married, popping out little carbon copies of themselves, or in a "serious relationship", but none of that really interested her.

But still... Sometimes she couldn't help but wonder if she was missing out?

Missing out on what, exactly, she wasn't quite sure, but sometimes she definitely felt that something was missing in her life.

She felt the pang in her chest, like a strange and indescribable ache.

It usually didn't last long though, and Maka found that ignoring it was often best.

If she drowned all her time into studying it usually dulled the ache quite considerably.

The sudden sounds of more voices coming from down below roused Maka from her dark musing.

She peeked down, looking for the people that, unlike her, had time to have a life.

The streets were now empty and quiet; Maka strained her eyes looking for the source of the new voices.

These voices were somehow different, sounding more muffled and hushed than the passing voices of the earlier pedestrians.

Seeing no one though, Maka was starting to think maybe she had just been hearing things.. But then she spotted them on the far side if the street, hidden in the shadows, leaning against a building, hidden away from the single street lamp illuminating her street.

A leggy redhead giggled playfully, pulling a gorgeous hunk of man in for a kiss.

They stood in the street kissing away like there was no tomorrow and Maka watched, riveted by the scene unfolding.

It was kind of sweet seeing a young couple so in love.

Maka felt like she was intruding on their privacy, but she could argue that it was a great chance to study the unknown workings of a complex relationship.

Maybe she would even learn something from them, the secrets of love maybe?

The man obviously tiring of the chaste kissing suddenly backed his girlfriend up against the wall behind them, stretching her hands above her head, and kissing her neck aggressively.

Man that escalated quickly! Maka thought, feeling her face flush.

He was really getting into it too with his whole gorgeous body. (And would you just look at that hip action? The way he was grinding against her—they might as well be doing it right there in the street!)

Maka sucked in a sharp breath.

How disgraceful! Maka thought utterly scandalized at the sight.

She really should look away or just go back inside the house, but a part of Maka wouldn't allow her to do that.

She couldn't help but feel a little envious.

God, had she ever been kissed like that?

Like the man couldn't wait to get her home.

Like he wanted to devour her, maybe crawl right inside her skin?

God, why can't I have a life like that? Maka thought sadly as she watched the couple.

"You can".. An inner voice reminded. Once you get your PHD..

The reminder wasn't as comforting as it should have been though.

Everywhere she turned lately there were couples, and they were busy coupling and having a wonderfully couplelicious time of it, and she was here jealously spying from her balcony.

Down below the couple seemed to be working themselves into a regular frenzy.

The man's hand caressed her body boldly, skimming across her thighs and backside.

Holy cow—the hottie was slipping his hand inside the redhead's jeans. And her hand was on his—oh! Right there in front of God and everybody!

It must be nice to be touched like that. Maka thought, blushing.

Maka felt her heartbeat quicken slightly at the thought.

Maka could almost imagine that she was the one he was kissing, that she was the one he was about to have hot animalistic-.

Maka shook her head quickly, trying to disrupt the rail her thoughts had been going down.

Damn her dopamine induced brain.

Man she needed to get out more. She was turning into one of those pervy people who got off watching others.

Maka stood abruptly, feeling ashamed as she hurried back into her apartment.

Slamming the door, Maka waited as her heart rate slowly decreased.

What's wrong with me? Maka thought, feeling confused.

I'm just overworked and lonely. Maka told herself reassuringly.

Maybe she should seriously look into finding a companion?

They required so much time and effort though, two things she didn't have a lot of to spare.

No maybe her problem wasn't lack of love, but maybe boredom?

That must be it.

She felt so restless being cooped up all the time.

It would be better once she graduated.

She would leave the boring confines of the classroom behind in exchange for a lifetime of traveling and adventure.

Exploring ancient ruins in Peru, or digging up forgotten civilizations in the Congo? And getting paid to do so?

Well, that just sounded like heaven.. and exactly what she needed.

A new sense of determination filled Maka as she gazed at all the papers scattered about.

She would finish school and start her new life, then surly that empty ache would leave?

Maka nodded her head happily and dove into her work, feeling better and eager to finish.

A whole new world awaited her, she just had to finish her schooling.

Oh yes, it wouldn't be long now..

Adventure was right around the corner; Maka could practically taste it as she scribbled furiously with her pen.

It was only a matter if time.

Unknown to Maka, though, her world would quickly change in ways she had not yet imagined.

If only she knew how close it really was and what it would entail, she might have not been so eager.

* * * * * * *  
Oh Maka, you naughty girl, being a total balcony creeper haha.

SO guys I hope you enjoyed the first chapter!

There are sooo many more chapters to come. Trust me, this story is going to be a long one!


	2. Hallows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings and salutations my peeps!  
> Or like they say in my home town, "Howdy!"  
> Yes... sadly I live in hillbilly hell, but it's quite charming at times.. except for the lack of internet connection!  
> I hope everyone enjoys reading this chapter! I know I enjoyed writing it :)  
> There are a few odd words in this chapter, be sure to see notes at the end for better definitions.

Chapter 2

Hallows

 

A man paced before the fire, a shimmer of magic enveloping him that only the trained eye could see.

When employing a sorcerer's spell to conceal his true appearance—which he did whenever he wasn't completely alone—he was tall, in his early forties, handsome, powerfully built, his thick hair dashed at the temples with silver .

He was a man who turned women's heads, and made men take an instinctive step back when he walked by.

His mien said one thing: Power—I have it, you don't. And if you think you do—try me.

His features were Old World, his eyes cold blue as a loch beneath a stormy sky.

He used this spell often, his true appearance was far less appealing.

He'd amassed tremendous wealth and power in his lifetime, which had been considerably longer than most.

He held controlling interest in many and varied enterprises, from banks to media to oil.

He kept residences in a dozen cities. He retained a select group of uniquely trained men and the occasional woman to handle his most private affairs.

This evening, to his left, seated in a deep armchair, one of those men waited tensely. "This is absurd, kilik," the man growled.

"What the hell's taking so long?"

Kilik shifted defensively in his chair. "I've got men on it, sir," he said with the trace of a foreign accent.

"The best men we've got. The problem is, as far as we can tell it was sold on the black market. No one has names. It's going to take time—"

"Time is the one thing I don't have," his boss cut him off sharply.

"Every hour, every moment that passes, makes it less likely that it'll be recovered."

"Sir, I understand that you wish to reclaim your stolen property, but I don't understand what's so special about one old mirror.

"Old mirror?" The man whispered angrily. "Try one of the oldest and rarest mirrors in existence. A one of a kind that could never be duplicated or replaced. You on the other hand Mr. Kilik, I could easily replace in an instant. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal, sir." Kilik nodded, looking pale.

His employer's idea of replacing someone didn't involve paper work and a proper dismissal, it involved disappearances and shallow graves.

"We do have a few muddied, yet possible leads to look into sir." Kilik stated, glancing nervously at a report one of his men had sent him.

"One from a private buyer in China, one from an antique broker here in London and one from a university in the states."

"Well?" The man asked, giving kilik a critical look.

"Well what sir?" Kilik asked, his throat bobbing convulsively.

"Well, then why are you still fucking here?!" The man bellowed, his pale face turning red.

"On my way, sir!" Kilik cried out as he bolted from his chair and made mad dash for the door.

"And no witnesses are to be left!" He yelled after kilik's retreating figure.

"Anyone who cames into contact with the mirror. I don't like loose ends."

"Understood, sir."

The door slamming shut and leaving him once again alone in his study the man sank heavily behind his desk.

How had this happened? He thought angrily as he massaged his aching temples.

That damned thing must be found.

That "damned thing" was one of the Dark Hallows of the Tuatha Dé Danaan— an artifact of immense power created by an ancient civilization that had long passed, centuries ago and quite erroneously, into Man's history books as a mythical race: the Daoine Sidhe or the Fae.

The artifact, to anyone who cared to glance seemed ordinary enough in appearance, but he alone knew the horrible truth.

What seemed to be an ancient and dusty mirror, held an immense and dark power.

The Hallow conferred a gift upon its possessor for a price, if the possessor had the knowledge and the power to use it.

The mirror's Dark Gift was immortality. Sweet immortality, no strings attached.. so long as he met its conditions.

He'd been meeting its conditions for over a few thousand years now and he fully intended to continue with its conditions until the end of time itself.

Well, he had planned on it, but the unforeseen theft of the hollow mirror had put a damper on his plans.

He had truly believed there was no better place to safe keep his prized treasure than in his well-warded private residence here in London.

He'd been wrong.. Critically wrong. Something that didn't happen often.

He wasn't certain what had happened a few months ago while he'd been out of the country pursuing a lead on the Dark Book, the final and most powerful of the four Unseelie Hallows, but something had transpired somewhere in London.

Its epicenter in the east side, he could feel the lingering traces of power—that had reverberated through all of England. An immense and ancient power had risen for a brief time, so strong that it had neutralized all other magic in Britain.

Which he wouldn't have cared about since whatever it was had departed as swiftly as it had come, except for the fact that its rising had shattered formidable, allegedly unbreakable wards that protected his most prized possessions.

Protected them so well that he'd found the notion of a modern-day security system laughable.

Not so laughable now, though, someone had simply walked in and taken a number of his possessions and the hollow mirror to boot.

If he'd had a state-of-the-art system installed in to his museum of a home watching he might have had better luck.

Fortunately the thief had been spotted by neighbors while hauling away his loot. Unfortunately, by the time his select staff had managed to identify and track the bastard, he'd already sold the artifacts to the first in a series of elusive middlemen.

Artifacts such as his, fabulous and utterly lacking provenance, inevitably ended up in one of two places: with the legal authorities of one country or another after being intercepted in transit, or sold for a fraction of their worth on the black market before disappearing, sometimes for hundreds of years before even a whisper of them was spoken.

He did not have hundreds of years to wait for the mirror to resurface though.

Normally the mirrors contract would only have to be met every century, which was no problem when you were immortal.

The mirror's tithe was due this year, at precisely midnight on Samhain, or Halloween as the current century called it.

Twenty-six days from today the mirror's century long tithe was due.

Twenty-six days from today, the mirror must be in his possession or the tithe would not be paid, and the consequences would be dire.

His immortality would be revoked, the contract broken.

That was simply not an option.

He had less than a month to find the mirror.

The man stood from his chair and walked over to the window, lost in his brooding thoughts.

"Where the devil are you Soul?"

"My wayward brother."

* * * * * * * *  
Surprise! Wes is our villain!

Who saw that coming, right?

I know, I know... Wes is generally a nice guy in most fan fics, but I decided to mix things up a bit.

I hope no one minds too terribly much.

Thanks again for reading!

Definitions.

Tuatha de danann: A powerful order of fairies/gods. Originating from Celtic mythology.

Daoine Sidhe/ Fae: Fairies, the fair folk.


	3. A trick of the light

24 hours later.

Maka's phone rang shrill, piercing her restless dreams.

Ugh Maka moaned rolling out of bed. Judging by the sound, her cell phone was lost somewhere in the kitchen and she had the wonderful task of finding it now. Her kitchen was rather notorious for swallowing things, never to be found again.

Her phone continued to ring insistently, Maka looks at the clock as she rushes past it, reading 11:00.

Who the heck was calling at this hour?

She had a sinking hunch who it was.

Pushing aside a stack of papers on the table and a pizza box that contained—eew—something fuzzy and phosphorescent green- Maka finally located her tiny blue cell phone. "Hello?" Maka asked, stifling a yawn.

"Ah Maka, I'm glad you answered." Came the familiar voice of her professor.

"Seems I'm in a wee bit of a pickle."

What kind of a pickle sir?" Maka asked, her eyes narrowing.

She knew that tone of voice, he used it when he needed something from her.

"Well, I've been in a fender bender, but other than a slight fracture in my wrist I'm fine. He assured her.

"I'm stuck here at the hospital for a bit so I've a wee favored to ask you Maka."

Of course he does, Maka thought sourly as she flipped on the kitchen light.

"I've a package coming. I was to accept a delivery at my office this evening," he said in his deep voice that, even after twenty-five years away from County Louth, Ireland, had never lost its lilt. Maka despised the man for being the main source of her sleep deprivation, but she really did love that Irish accent. She couldn't wait to one day hear a whole pub speaking it while she washed down a hearty serving of soda bread and Irish stew with a perfectly poured Guinness.

After, of course, having spent an entire day at the National Museum of Ireland delightedly poring over such fabulous treasures as the Tara Brooch, the Ardagh Chalice, and the Broighter Gold Collection.

It was dreams like these that made Maka feel all the hard work and sleepless nights would one day be worth while.

Hugging the phone between ear and shoulder, Maka glanced at her clock on the stove, indicating ten minutes past eleven.

"What kind of package gets delivered so late at night?" she wondered aloud.

"You needn't concern yourself with that. Just sign for it, lock it up, and go home. That's all I need."

"Of course, Professor, but what—"

"Just sign, lock it up, and forget about it, Maka."

A pause, a weighty silence, then: "I see no reason to mention this to anyone. It's personal. Not university business." He said, his voice hard.

Maka blinked, startled; she'd never heard such a tone in the professor's voice before.

Words sharply clipped, he'd sounded defensive, almost. .. well paranoid.

"I understand. I'll take care of it. You just rest, Professor. Don't you worry about a thing, Maka soothed hastily, deciding that whatever pain meds he was getting were making him funny, the poor guy.

She'd once had Tylenol with codeine that had made her feel itchy all over, short-tempered and irritable.

With a fracture, it was a sure bet he'd been given something stronger than Tylenol 3.

"Thank you Maka, I can always count on you." He said before hanging up.

Maka sighed heavily as she grabbed her car keys off the counter and walked out the door.

She jumped into her car and drove the 15 minute drive to the university, all the while reminding herself that it wasn't so bad having to be an errand girl for her professor. It would pay off one day and she would go on all those grand adventures she had been dreaming up since starting school.

The parking lot was empty and slightly eerie feeling when she pulled up; Maka rushed from her car to the front door, pulling out the key her professor had given her months ago specifically for locking up late and coming in early.

Now, standing beneath the faintly buzzing fluorescent lights in the university hallway, Maka rubbed her eyes and yawned hugely.

She was exhausted.

She'd gotten up at six-fifteen for a seven-twenty class and by the time she got home tonight—er, this morning—and managed to fall back into bed, she would have put in another twenty-hour day. Again.

Turning the key in the lock, she pushed open the office door, fumbled for the light switch, and flipped it on.

Maka inhaled as she stepped into the professor's office, savoring the scholarly blend of books and leather, fine wood polish, and the pungent aroma of his favorite pipe tobacco. She planned to one day have an office of her own very much like it.

The spacious room had built-in floor-to-ceiling bookcases and tall windows that, during the day, spilled sun across an intricately woven antique rug of wine, russet, and amber. The teak-and-mahogany furniture was formally masculine: a stately claw-foot desk; a sumptuous leather Chesterfield sofa in a deep, burnished coffee-bean hue; companion wing chairs. There were numerous glass-paned curio cabinets and occasional tables displaying his most prized replica pieces. A reproduction Tiffany lamp graced his desk.

Only his computer, with its twenty-one-inch flat screen, belied the century. Remove it, and she might have been standing in the library of a nineteenth-century English manor house.

There was a swift knock and the sound of a door down the hallway creaking open.

"In here," Maka called over her shoulder, happy that the delivery men had shown up so promptly.

Maybe she'd be back in bed sooner than she had thought.

The package in question hadn't turned out to be quite what she'd expected either.

From the way the professor had spoken of it, she'd imagined a bulky envelope, perhaps a small parcel. But the "package" was actually a crate, and a huge one at that. It was tall, wide, about the size of a . . . well, a sarcophagus or something, and proving no easy matter to navigate through the university corridors.

"Careful, man. Tilt it! Tilt it! Ow! You're smashing my finger. Back it up and angle it!" A muttered "Sorry." More grunting. "Damn thing's awkward.

Hall's too frigging narrow."

"You're almost here," Maka offered helpfully. "Just a bit further."

Indeed, moments later, they carefully lowered the oblong box from their shoulders, depositing it on the rug.

"The professor said I needed to sign something." Maka encouraged, trying to be polite but wanting them to hurry.

She had a full day of working and studying tomorrow . . . er, today.

"Lady, we need more than than that. This here package doesn't get left 'till it's verified."

" 'Verified'?" she echoed. "What does that mean?"

"Means it's worth boo-koo bucks, and the shipper's insurer's got to have visual verification and release. See? Says so right here."

The beefier of the two deliverymen thrust a clipboard at her.

"Don't care who does it, lady, so long as somebody's John Hancock's on my paperwork."

Sure enough, Visual Verification and Release Required was stamped in red across the bill of lading, followed by two pages of terms and definitions detailing shipper's and buyer's rights in pedantic, inflated legal jargon.

Maka pushed a hand through her messy blonde hair, sighing.

The professor wasn't going to like this. He'd said it was personal.

"And if I don't let you open it up and inspect it?" Maka asked hesitantly.

"Goes back, lady. And let me tell you, the shipper's gonna be plenty pissed."

"Yeah," said the other man. Thing cost an arm and a leg to insure. Goes back, your professor's gonna have to pay the second time around. I bet he's gonna be plenty pissed too."

They stared at her with flat, challenging gazes, clearly disinclined to wrestle the awkward crate back up on their shoulders, squeeze it back down the hall, reload it and return it, only to end up delivering it again.

Maka glanced at her phone, then glanced at her watch.

She hadn't gotten the professor's room number and suspected that if she called the main desk, they'd never put her through at this hour.

Though he'd insisted he wasn't badly hurt, she knew the doctors wouldn't have kept him if he hadn't been seriously injured.

Hospitals these days spit people out as fast as they took them in.

Would the professor be more upset if she opened it—or if she refused the delivery and it cost him a fortune to have it reshipped?

She sighed again, feeling damned if she did and damned if she didn't.

In the end it was the constantly-broke college student in her who flipped the coin and made the call.

"Fine. Let's do this. Open it up."

Twenty minutes later the delivery men had secured her wearily scribbled signature and were gone, taking the remains of the crating with them.

And now she stood, eyeing the thing curiously.

It wasn't a sarcophagus after all. In fact, most of the packaging had been padding.

From deep within layers and layers of cushioned wrapping, they'd unearthed a mirror and, at her direction, propped it carefully against the east wall of bookshelves. Taller than herself by more than a foot, the mirror's ornate frame was a shimmery gold.

Shapes and symbols, of such uniformity and cohesion to imply a system of writing, were carved into every inch of the wide border.

Maka narrowed her eyes, pondering the etchings, but linguistics was not her specialty, and the symbols were nothing that, without searching through books or notes, she could identify as a letter, word, or glyph. Inside the gaudy gilt frame, the outer edges of the silvery glass were marred with a cloudy, uneven black stain of some sort, but aside from that, the glass itself was startlingly clear. She suspected it had been broken and replaced at some point and would ultimately prove centuries younger than the frame. No mirror of yore had achieved such clarity. Though the earliest artificial mirrors discovered by archaeologists dated back to 6200 B.C.E., they had been fashioned of polished obsidian, not glass. The first glass mirrors of significant size—roughly three-by-five-foot panels—hadn't been manufactured until the 1680's by Italian glassmaker Bernard Perroto for the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles, commissioned by the extravagant Sun King, Louis the XIV. Exceptional glass mirrors of the size of the one before her—an impressive six and a half feet tall—generally proved to be a few hundred years old, at most. Considering this one's pristine silvering, it was likely less than a century in age, and no one had gone mad or died from slow mercury poisoning making it. Hatmakers, or "hatters," hadn't been the only ones to suffer from the toxic fumes of their trade (though, for some reason maka had never been able to figure, the idiom "mad-as-a-mirrormaker" had never quite caught on).

Eyes narrowed thoughtfully, she scrutinized it.

The archaeologist in Maka itched to know the piece's provenance, wondered if the frame had been accurately dated.

She frowned.

What did the professor want with a mirror, anyway? Such an item wasn't at all in keeping with his usual tastes, which ran toward replica weapons and reproductions of ancient timepieces such as the sixteenth-century German astrolabe adorning his desk.

And how could the professor possibly afford something worth "boo-koo bucks" on his teaching salary, anyway?

Fishing the key from the pocket of her jeans, Maka turned to leave. She'd done as he'd asked. Her work here was finished. It was time to go home and hit the hay. She flipped off the light and was just stepping through the doorway when she felt a chill. All the fine hair at the nape of her neck lifted, tingling as if electrified.

Maka's heart was abruptly pounding against the wall of her chest, and she felt the sudden, terrifying certainty that she was being watched.

In the manner that prey was watched. Flinching, she turned back toward the mirror. Dimly illuminated by the pale blue glow of the computer's screen saver, the artifact looked positively eerie. The gold appeared silvery; the silver glass, smoky, dark and deep with shadows.

And in those shadows, something moved. Maka sucked in a breath so fast she choked on it.

Sputtering, she groped for the light switch. Overhead light blazed down, flooding the room.

She stared into the oblong glass, pressing a hand to her throat, swallowing convulsively.

Something other than her reflection stared back.

Maka shut her eyes quickly, closing them tightly, then snapped them open again. Stared into the glass again. Just her. The hair at her nape continued to bristle, icy chills rippled up her spine. The pulse in the hollow of her neck fluttered frantically beneath her palm.

Eyes wide, she glanced uneasily around the room. The professor's office, precisely as it should be.

After a long moment, she tried for a laugh, but it came out shaky, uncertain, and seemed to echo unpleasantly in the office—as if the room's square footage and actual occupiable space didn't quite coincide.

"Maka, you're losing it," she whispered.

There was nothing, no one with her in the professor's office, but her overactive imagination.

With a dismissive toss of her blonde head, she turned, flipped off the light again, and this time pulled the door shut behind her hard and fast and without a backward glance.

Hurrying down the corridor, she dashed out into the back parking lot, kicking up a swirl of red and gold leaves as she hastened to her car.

The more distance she put between herself and the building, the more ridiculous she felt—really, getting all spooked alone on campus at night! One day she would be working on excavations in the middle of nowhere, quite likely late at night and sometimes alone.

She couldn't afford to be fanciful. At times, though, it was hard not to be, especially when holding a twenty-five-hundred-year-old Druid brooch or examining a fabulously detailed La Tène period sword.

Certain relics seemed to carry lingering traces of energy, the residue of the passionate lives of those who'd touched them or crafted them.

Maka had always felt these energies and connect with them on an almost weird level.

Though not anything like what she thought she'd just seen.

"How weird was that?' she muttered, shaking off a lingering shiver.

"God, I really must have sex on the brain." Watching the hottie and his girlfriend last evening had apparently done quite a number on her.

That, coupled with exhaustion and the low lighting, she decided firmly as she unlocked her car and slipped behind the wheel, must have pushed her over the edge, into a brief, eyes-wide-open kind of hallucination/fantasy.

Because for a moment she actually thought she'd seen a half-naked man—an absolute sex-god of a man, no less—standing in the professor's office, looking back at her.

A trick of the light, strange shadows falling, nothing more.

A towering, muscle-ripped, darkly beautiful man, dripping power. And hunger. And sex. The kind of sex nice girls didn't have.

Her delusional fantasy had looked at her like she was Little Red Riding Hood and he was the big, bad wolf who hadn't been fed in a long, long time. Definitely a trick of the light. Looking at her from inside the mirror.

"Oh, honey, you so need to get a boyfriend!" Maka thought lamely as she pulled out of the parking lot, heading home to get that sleep she so desperately needed.

Red eyes, the color of blood and misery, cracked open as six feet of caged 9th century Highlander stirred.

He awoke in a place that was not a place, yet was place enough to serve as an inescapable fortress prison.

A place to terrify and to drive the common man stark raving mad.

Something had roused him from his slumber, which was a rarity in itself.

Nothing interesting ever occurred in this timeless hell.

He inhaled deeply, something sweet and foreign floating in the breezeless air around him.

A hungry animal sound rumbled deep in his throat.

Just as he'd thought: He smelled woman.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Aw I love the thought of Scottish Soul.

There's just something about a man in a kilt lol ;)


	4. Sharp dressed man

Chapter 4

Sharp dressed man.

 

A FEW DAYS LATER . . .

When next Maka unlocked the professor's office—late on Monday night—a distant part of her brain noted something askew, some tiny niggling detail, but she failed to process it, as she was currently the guest of honor at her own festive and highly enthusiastic pity-party. Maka turned the key, and back again, actually locking then unlocking the door, eluding her utterly. Had she not been busy muttering beneath her breath about the depressingly huge stack of freshman papers that had been dumped on her in the professor's absence, she might have noticed the wrongness of the door already been unlocked.

Maka's mind was stuck on the one hundred and eleven student essays she had agreed to grade for the professor while he was recuperating at home.

Unfortunately, enthused celebrant of her own misery, she didn't notice a thing. Maka paused with the door slightly ajar, puffed a few wayward strands of hair from her face, and shifted the crammed-full backpack on her shoulder so her textbooks would stop gouging the back of her ribs.

"A hundred and eleven essays? Would somebody just shoot me and put me out of my misery?"

There went any hope of sleeping for the next few days.

Maybe I should just put a cot in the broom closet. Maka thought Wryly. I'd get more sleep and save a ton on gas by living here.

Nudging the door open with her hip, Maka pushed inside, leaving it ajar. Skirting the desk, she headed straight for the wall of bookshelves. She didn't bother turning on the light, partly because she'd organized the office herself and knew exactly where to find the two books on Celtic Gaul that the Professor had wanted her to pick up for him, and partly because she was determined not to get distracted by the mirror, and the slow, relentless burn of questions it had ignited in her mind. Maka had made peace with that weird little trick of the eye she'd suffered on Friday—a product of nothing more than low light and exhaustion. But she was dying to know if the mirror was a genuine relic. How had the professor come across it? Was its origin provable? Had any valid dating been done?

What were those symbols, anyway? Maka had a sticky memory—a useful ability in her field—and several of the symbols had gotten embedded in it from her single, cursory inspection. She'd been subconsciously pondering them since, wondering why they seemed so familiar, yet somehow . . . wrong. Trying to pinpoint where she'd seen something similar before. Her specialty was the archaeology of Europe from the Paleolithic to the "Celtic" Iron Age. Though the mirror was clearly of recent manufacture, she was titillated by the possibility that the frame might actually date to somewhere in the late Iron Age. She knew herself well enough to know that if she took another look at the relic tonight, curiosity would get the best of her and the next thing, she'd be digging through the professor's reference books trying to determine what the symbols were and doing her best to guesstimate a date. Been there, done that, Maka thought to herself. Blew an entire night without even realizing it, poring over one artifact or another, especially on those rare and glorious occasions the university was briefly entrusted with a collector's piece for study or verification. Maka always paid for it double the next day. With that infernal stack of papers waiting for her, she couldn't afford to waste any time. In and out, swift and efficient was her plan tonight and she was sticking to it. Grab the books and leave, don't look at the mirror.

Maka was just reaching up to pluck the two thick volumes from the shelf when she heard the soft snick of the door closing behind her. She stiffened, froze mid-reach. Then snorted and pulled the first book from the shelf. A draft. Nothing more. "No way. I am not getting all freaked out on campus again tonight. That blasted mirror is just a mirror," she told the bookcase firmly.

"Actually, it's not," a smooth, faintly accented voice murmured behind her. "It's far more than a simple mirror. Who else knows it's here?"

Maka gasped and turned around so fast that the book went flying from her hand, hit the wall with a solid whump, and slid to the floor.

Maka winced. Across the office, in the dim light afforded by the computer, she could just make out the silhouette of a man leaning back against the door, arms folded across his chest. "Wh-what—wh-who—" she stammered, her green eyes wide.

Light flooded the room. "I startled you," the man said softly, dropping his hand from the light switch.

Later Maka would realize he'd merely noted a fact, not apologized.

Maka blinked against the abrupt increase in wattage, taking him in. His arms were crossed again; he leaned casually against the door. Tall and well built, he loomed, a sly smile upon his face. Dark hair was pulled back from a clean-shaven, classic face. He wore a dark, expensive tailored suit, a crisp shirt, a tasteful tie. His voice held a distinct, yet unfamiliar accent. Perhaps Russian, Maka mused, as she regarded him. He was dressed well, he obviously wasn't a student.

A young professor visiting from abroad? A speaker engaged by the university?

"I didn't realize anyone else was still in this wing," Maka said, trying to break the weird silence. "Are you looking for the Professor?"

"The professor and I have already had our time together this evening," he replied with the ghost of a smile.

An odd way of phrasing things; his comment passed through Maka's mind absently, as she was still hung up on his opening gambit.

She pounced on it, pursuing it eagerly: "What did you mean, 'it's far more than a simple mirror'? What do you know about it? Where is it from? Are you here to authenticate it? Or has it already been? What are the symbols? Do you know?" she asked eagerly.

He stepped away from the door, moved deeper into the room. "I understand it was delivered this past Friday. Has anyone else seen it?"

Maka thought a moment, then shook her head. "I don't think so. The deliverymen opened it up, but other than that just me. Why? Is it top secret?"

He glanced around the office. "There's been no cleaning crew in since then? No other persons such as yourself with a key?"

Maka frowned, perplexed by the direction of his questions. And getting irked that he wasn't answering any of hers.

"No. The cleaners come on Wednesdays and the only reason I have a key is because I'm the Professor's assistant."

"I see." He eased forward another step.

And that was when Maka felt it. Menace. Rolling off him.

She'd not picked up on it right away, disarmed by his sudden appearance, curious about the artifact, peripherally distracted by her own brooding.

But it was there—a wolf beneath the sheep's clothing. For all his seeming civility, there was something cold and dangerous beneath that elegant suit he wore. And it was focused on her. Why? It didn't make any sense! And suddenly the tiny niggling detail that had eluded her when she'd turned the key in the door swam up from the murky waters of her subconscious: It had already been unlocked! He must have been in the office, concealing himself behind the door when she'd pushed it open! Keep him talking, she thought, fighting panic. Maka drew a careful, deep breath. The adrenaline was kicking in, upping her heart rate, making her hands and legs feel shaky. She concentrated on betraying no sign of her belated recognition of danger. Surprise might be the only advantage she had. Somewhere in the office was something she could use as a weapon, something more threatening than a book. She just had to get her hands on it before he figured out she was on to him. She snatched a surreptitious glance to her right. Yes! Just as she'd thought, there lay one of the professor's replica blades on a nearby curio table. Though a reproduction piece, fashioned of steel not gem-encrusted gold, it was every bit as lethal as the real thing.

"So how old is the mirror, anyway?" she asked, donning her best wide- eyed I'm-not-the-brightest-bulb-in-the-box look.

He moved again. Smooth, like a well-muscled animal. A few more steps and he'd be past the desk. She eased right a tad. It seemed he was pondering whether or not to answer her for a moment, then he shrugged. "You would probably place it in the Old Stone Age." Maka sucked in a breath and for just a moment, the briefest of instants, fear fell by the wayside. The Old Stone Age? Was he kidding? Wait—of course he was. He had to be! It was patently impossible. The earliest forms of writing, cuneiform and hieroglyphics, weren't even in existence until the mid to end of the fourth century B.C.E.! And those etchings on the mirror were some kind of writing. "Ha, ha. I'm not that stupid." Well, today, she ceded dismally, she certainly seemed to be, on just about all fronts, but normally she wasn't. Normally she suffered only one or two stupid fronts, not this all-encompassing, a blanket of idiocy.

"That would put it at pre-ten-thousand B.C.E.," she scoffed, as she stole a few more inches. Had he noticed what she was doing? If so, he was giving no indication. "Yes, indeed it would. Considerably 'pre.' " He took another step forward. Maka considered screaming but she was nearly certain there was no one else in the south wing this late at night, and suspected it would be wiser to conserve her energy to defend herself with.

"Okay, I'll go with this a minute," she said, inching, inching. Just a little farther. Keep him talking. Dare she Make a leap for it?

"You're claiming the frame is from the Old Stone Age. Right? And the carvings were added later, and the mirror inserted in the last century or so." "No. The entire piece, in sum, Old Stone Age."

Her jaw dropped. She snapped her mouth closed, but it fell open again. She searched his face, but detected no sign of jest.

"Impossible! Symbols aside, that's a glass mirror!"

He laughed softly. "Not . . . quite. Nothing about an Unseelie piece is ever . . . quite what it seems." "

'An Unseelie piece'?" she echoed blankly. "I'm not familiar with that classification."

Maka's fingers curled, she braced herself to dive for the blade, doing a mental five-count . . . four . . . three . . .

"Not many are. It denotes relics few ever see and live to tell of. Ancient Hallows fashioned by those darkest among the Tuatha Dé Danaan."

He paused the space of a heartbeat. "Don't worry, Maka Alban—" Oh, God, he knew her name. How did he know her name? "—I'll make it quick. You'll hardly feel a thing." His smile was terrifyingly gentle.

"Holy shit!" She lunged for the dirk at the same moment he lunged for her.

* * * * * * * * * * 

I know we've been focusing on Maka mostly, but don't worry, we'll see more of Soul in the next chapter. YAY!

Definitions:  
Unseelie: Darkly inclined fairies. The word Unseelie is a Celtic word meaning unholy, and unblessed.


	5. Salty dreams

When one was afraid for one's life, Maka observed with almost serene ,dreamlike detachment, events had a funny way of slowing down, even though one knew the events were really rushing toward one with all the velocity and surety of a high-speed train wreck. Maka noted every detail of his lunge, as if it unfolded in freeze-frames: his legs bent, his body drew in on itself, coiling to spring, one hand dipped into a pocket, withdrew a thin wire with leather-wrapped ends

(Oh god he was going to strangle her!), his eyes went cold, his face hard, she even noticed the whitening around the edges of his nostrils as they flared with a terrifying, incongruous sexual excitement. She was aware of her own body in a similar dichotomous fashion. Though her heart thundered and her breath came in fast and furious gasps, her legs felt made of lead, and the few steps she managed seemed to take a lifetime. His lips curled mockingly and, in that sharp-edged smile, she saw the sudden stark certainty that even if she managed to arm herself with the small blade, it wouldn't matter. Death waited in his smile. He'd done this before.

Many, many times. And he was good at it. Maka had no idea how she knew, she just knew. As he closed in on her, wrapping the leather-cased ends of the wire around his hands, the silvery glint of the minor, leaning against the bookshelves beyond the table, caught her eye. Of course—the mirror! She might not be able to best him in a physical struggle, but she just happened to be smack between him and what he wanted! And what he wanted was highly breakable. Maka practically fell on top of the curio table, shoved aside the dirk, and closed her hand instead around the heavy pewter base of the lamp next to it. She whirled to face him at a dizzying speed, backed up against the mirror, and hefted the lamp like a baseball bat. "Stop right there!" the man stopped so abruptly that he should have fallen flat on his face, which spoke volumes about how much lethal muscle was under that suit—oh yes, she'd

be dead if he got his hands on her. "Take one more step and I'll smash the mirror to smithereens." Maka practically growled, branding the lamp threateningly. Was that the sound of a sharply indrawn breath behind her? Followed by a muttered curse? Impossible! She dare not turn. Her mind was freaking out. Dare not take her eyes off her attacker for even a moment. Dare not give in to the sob of fear that was trying to claw its way up the back of her throat. His gaze darted over her shoulder, his eyes flared, then his gaze latched back on her. "No, you won't do it. You preserve history. You don't destroy it. That thing is priceless. And it is as old as I said it was. It is conceivably the single most important relic any archaeologist has ever laid eyes on. It debunks thousands of years of your so-called 'history.' Think of the impact it could have on your world." "Mine personally? Gee, like, uh, none, if I'm dead. Maka spat. ''Back off, mister, if you want it in one piece. And I think you do. I think it's not worth a thing to you broken." If he was going to kill her, Maka had nothing to lose by smashing it into a gazillion silvery little pieces; no matter how much Maka's inner historian violently protested such sacrilege. If she was going down, she was taking whatever he wanted with her. If she was going to be dead, by God, he was going to be miserable too. A muscle worked in his jaw. His gaze skidded between her and the mirror and back again. He tensed as if to take a step. "Don't do it," she warned. "I'm serious." She shifted her grip on the lamp, prepared to swing it into the mirror if he so much as breathed wrong. If nothing else, maybe they'd struggle atop the shards of glass; he'd slip, cut himself, and bleed to death. It would serve him right. "Impasse," he murmured. "Interesting. You've more spirit than I'd thought."

Maka's green eyes narrowed fiercely.

"I'm going to enjoy killing you," he whispered softly.

Maka's grip on the lamp faltered as her heart stuttered at his words. She was toast. There was no one to save her. Or so she thought..

"Kilik, shut your mouth! Your pitiful voice is giving me a bloody headache." Came the sound of a deep and masculine voice from behind her.

A chill shuddered through Maka's entire body, and the baby-fine hair at the nape of her neck stood up, quivering on end. Just like on Friday, the room felt suddenly . . . wrong. Not quite the size and shape it was supposed to be. As if a door that by all conventions of reality couldn't possibly be there had suddenly opened, skewing the known dimensions of her world.

Oh god I'm hearing things, Maka thought in horror. I'm losing it.

But apparently her assailant heard the voice as well.

"Shut the hell up," her assailant clipped, his gaze fixed over her shoulder, "or I'll smash you myself."

Dark, mocking laughter rolled behind her. It made her shiver. "You wouldn't dare and well you ken it. That's why you've not attacked her yet. Your bastard boss sent you with precise instructions. Bring the mirror back intact, no? The mere possibility that the mirror might be shattered makes your blood ice. You know what your boss can do to you. You'd be begging for death." said the voice directly behind Maka.

"Huh-uh, no way," Maka whispered, green eyes going wide. She could feel the blood draining from her face. "I don't believe any of this." She took a shaky little breath. Surely she was dreaming?

Logic insisted there couldn't possibly be anyone behind her. And certainly not anyone inside a mirror, for heaven's sake! But her gut was of a different opinion. Her gut sensed "Man" with a capital "M" behind her, and he was throwing off all the heat of a small, fiery forge at her back. Enough that it made the sides and front of her feel abruptly cold. Maka's neck ached with the effort of keeping her gaze fixed firmly on her would-be murderer, and not turning to gape at the looking glass. She could feel him behind her though. Something. Someone. Caged power. Whatever was behind her was formidable. "Don't turn, woman, keep your eyes on him" the voice behind her counseled calmly.

"You don't have to tell me twice, Maka mumbled." Feeling ridiculous talking to something that really didn't exist.

"If you wish to live, lass," came the deep, rich purr of a brogue behind her, "best summon me out now.

"Summon you?" Maka squeaked, as she eyed the lethal man only a few feet in front of her. What the hell was her brain doing to her?

"Keep your eyes on him and speak after me—"

"I'd advise against that," the dark suited man warned, locking gazes with her. "You've no idea what you'd be letting out of that mirror." Maka took another shallow breath. She could sense his barley leashed fury, knew if he thought, for even a split second, that she might not actually break the mirror, she was dead. She was afraid to so much as blink, afraid he would lunge during that brief moment of vulnerability. And there was something behind her that couldn't possibly be there, at least not according to any laws of physics she understood. Admittedly, there were many laws of physics she didn't understand, but she felt confident enough of those she did to protest faintly, "This is crazy."

" 'Crazy' would be letting him out," the suited man said.

" Do as I say and I'll see to it he doesn't harm you." rumbled the voice from the mirror.

"Oh, like I'm believing that. Now the demon mirror thinks it's my protector?" Maka snapped.

"Summon me out, woman. I am your protector," came the command at her back.

"This isn't happening." It couldn't be. None of it. Maka's mind was incapable of processing it, and the sensation of dreamlike detachment was increasing exponentially. She felt as if she were standing, bewildered, on a stage set, as actors played their parts around her.

"He will kill you, lass," rolled the deep Scots burr behind her, "and you know it. You don't ken the same of me. He will surely kill you, but you have the choice to choose me instead, 'tis a simple choice."

"And that's supposed to be reassuring?" Maka moaned over her shoulder, to whatever it was that was there that couldn't really be there.

The suited man smiled coldly at her. "Oh, he'll kill you, and far more brutally than I would. Step aside and I'll let you live. I'll collect the mirror and leave. I give you my word." the man tried, smiling sweetly.

Maka shook her head from side to side, once. "Leave. Now. And I won't smash the mirror." Maka threatened half-heartedly.

"He won't leave, lass, 'till you're dead. He cannot. He is bound to serve a man who would punish him were he to let you go." Said the voice in the mirror almost pleadingly. "All who lay eyes on the Dark Glass are put to rest, no witnesses are to be left.

I've no means to convince you to trust me. You must hang your bonnet on faith. Him. Or me. Choose. Now woman, choose!"

Maka was damned if she did and damned if she didn't. Maka was in a corner and she knew her time was running short.

"Repeat the words I am about to say lass," the mirror said.

"Lialth bree che bree, soul eater, drachme se-sidh!"

Maka knew her time was up, the suited man's eyes were burning violently and a snarl of rage tugged at his mouth. Maka knowing she was dead either way, decided instantly to obey the mirror. If she was going to die, might as well take the suited man with her. So Maka echoed the strange words of the mirror without missing a beat. Because she finally understood what was going on. She was right—none of this was happening. What was happening was that she'd let herself in the Professor's office and, rather than going to the bookshelf as she'd thought, she'd sat down for a moment on the plush leather Chesterfield sofa to rest her eyes. But she'd ended up getting too horizontal. And she was currently snoozing soundly away, having the most bizarre of dreams. And everyone knew nothing mattered in dreams. One always woke up. Always. So why not let the man out of the mirror? Who cared? She echoed the odd incantation, twice, for good measure. Suddenly, brilliant golden light flashed, the heat behind her increased markedly, and the room suddenly seemed too small for all that was in it. The sensation of spatial distortion increased almost unbearably, then the room was dead quiet.

The lamp was plucked from her limp grasp and placed elsewhere. Strong hands closed on her waist from behind. Lifted her from the floor and swept her aside. Deposited her behind something large and solid, sheltering her with what she assumed was his body.

"Whuh?" Maka breathed in shock.

She glanced up. And up. Her eyes coming to rest on the towering, now solid looking man standing in front of her.

It was the same phantom man she had seen last Friday night.

"What the hell?" Maka asked out loud.

Don't worry now lass, I'm here to protect you. The man whispered roughly.

Wow what a doosey this dream was turning into, Maka thought dazedly. It totally went from a let's murder Maka dream into an all out fantasy sex dream.

The man standing in front of her was a man with a capital M.

Tall and strong and so savagely, splendidly masculine. He wore no shirt, but sported a kilt of dark colors.

His hair was long and shaggy and startlingly white. She could not see his face, but she guessed that is was probably just as nice as the rest of him.

Being this close to him Maka inhaled the scent of him—God, had she ever smelled such a scent? The female muscles deep in her lower belly clenched. He bore no chemical traces of aftershave or deodorant. Nothing artificial. Just pure man: a blend of sun-warmed leather on skin, a kiss of something spicy like clove, a touch of sweat, and the raw, unspoken promise of sex. If male sexual dominion had a scent, he reeked of it, and it worked on her like the ultimate pheromone. Maka felt a little dazed.

This dream is so vivid. Maka thought as she slid her palms up that perfect, powerful back, gliding over the ridges of muscle.

At her bold touch his entire body jerked with a violence that she would have found frightening, were she awake and any of it real.

Curious at how real the dream felt, Maka stuck her tongue out and delicately licked.

Wow, what a dream! He felt and even tasted real. He tasted of salt, and earth.

He sucked in a sharp breath between his teeth at the feel of her tasting him, a long, tight indrawn hiss, as if he were in exquisite pain.

He went completely still, and made a guttural sound deep in his throat.

"You try me, woman," he hissed.

The suited man turned very pale at the sight of the red eyed beast now freed from the mirror.

The man promptly fled, seeing his opportunity to escape while the beast was distracted by the Alban woman.

"Fuck," bellowed the man from the mirror. In two strides he was through the door, slamming it behind him, chasing after the suited man.

Maka now stood alone, open mouthed and speechless.

With a gusty sigh, she went and slumped down on the couch. After a moment, she lay down, stretched out, and folded her arms behind her head. She crossed her legs. Uncrossed them. Rubbed her eyes. Pinched herself experimentally a time or two. What a weird dream, she thought with a little snort of amusement. A worrisomely vivid, detailed dream, but a dream nonetheless. She was going to wake up any minute now. Yup. Any minute now.

* * * * * * * * *  
Definitions  
Ken, is a scottish word. they use it in the place of know. I ken= I know


	6. Blood red nightmares

Vengeance.

'Twas the possibility that had kept Soul Evan from going stark raving mad during the past 1,133 years of his incarceration in the Dark Glass.

From outside, the glass looked to be little more than an elaborate mirror. From within, it was a circular stone prison, fifteen paces across at any point one chose to walk it. And he'd walked it a lot. Counted every bloody stone. Stone floor. Stones walls. Stone ceiling. Gray. Drab. Cold. He'd stayed heated over the centuries by one thought only, burning like liquid fire in his veins. Vengeance. He'd lived it, breathed it, become it, caged and waiting, ever since the day his elder brother, a man he'd once counted his closest friend and boon companion, had bound him to the Dark Glass, thereby securing immortality for himself.

The bastard.

Given the extent of the binding spells Wesley had used on him—coupled with his powerlessness within the glass and his inability to exit it, unless granted a brief freedom by the chanting of a summoning spell by someone beyond it—some might have dismissed his hope for vengeance as an impossibility. But being a Druid, a warrior at heart and a Keltar at that, Soul understood things that seemed impossible rarely were. What impossible truly meant was "hasn't happened yet." A fact that had been demonstrated well enough when, three and a half months ago, a thief had broken into his brother's London stronghold—an impossibility in itself—and carted off half the bastard's most prized relics, including the Dark Glass. Not to mention all of it happening a few scant months before the tithe that bound Soul to the Hallow mirror was due. Chance had favored him at long last. Wesley had lost possession of the mirror just when he needed it the most. Now it was the tenth day of the tenth month, and Soul need only stay out of Wesley's hands for a mere twenty-two more days—until just after midnight on All Hallows' Eve, the anniversary of his original binding. In order to satisfy his millennium-old lust for vengeance, all he had to do was wait and vengeance would finally be his. And bloody hell, he was starved for it! Now that Wesley had a solid lead on the Dark Book though, the most dangerous of all the Unseelie Hallows, it was even more critical that Soul shatter the binding imprisoning him before his brother found the book. Fulcrum for some of the deadliest black magic known to man, the Dark Book in the hands along with the cursed mirror in the hands of any man was a recipe for cataclysmic destruction. In the hands of Weasley Evans, it could brew the end of everything as the world knew it. Weasley could rewrite history, change time itself, if he managed to decipher some of the intricate spells within the book. Soul had to stop him from getting the book. He had to defeat his ancient enemy once and for all. Soul had thought success within his grasp, had believed, given how many hands the Dark Glass had been passed through, and how far it had been sent after being stolen that Wesley would never find it in time, but yesterday had illustrated otherwise. He'd indeed been found, and his time had run out. He'd recognized the assassin kilik's voice the moment he'd slipped into the office last eve. He'd glimpsed him several times in the past when kilik had visited Wesley's London residence, where Soul had hung high on a wall in Wesley's private study. From his high resting place soul had been taunted by a view out of a large ceiling to floor window that overlooked a busy London street in a world in which he would never live again. At least he'd had a view. Had Wesley hung his mirror toward the wall, he wasn't certain even the strong lust for vengeance would have kept him sane. With his view from the wall though Soul had been able to watch and learn as the world progressed.

He'd kept up with time's fierce trot forward, devouring every book, periodical, and newspaper that passed through Wesley's study over the centuries, his eyes greedily devouring up any kind of information. Occasionally Wesley would turn on the thing called a TV and Soul would be bombarded with new images. This TV was a very useful thing to keep up with the changing times. From his window view Soul had watched over the centuries as the world metamorphosed from a sweetly rolling meadow to a small town, and finally to a sophisticated, bustling city. Because Soul was so up to date on current events, he was hardly fazed as he walked briskly from the mirror out into the real world. Being summoned out of that mirror was the best feeling he had experienced in a good decade or two.

Free, sweet Christ, he'd walked free again for a time!

After being released from the mirror he had rushed out of the room, then trotted through the maze of a huge building, until he finally burst out of one last door.

The night sky had greeted him, soft and warm.

He'd felt the crush of grass beneath his boots, savored the wind in his face! It was a feeling Soul had feared he'd never feel again. There were days inside the mirror when he felt he might willingly cut off his right arm for a single deep breath of a peat fire heaped with sheaves of fragrant heather, or a few lungfuls of briny air on Scotia's wild shore. Or to sprawl on his back atop a high hill, as close to the heavens as one could get only in the Highlands, and watch the gloaming take the sky, streak and smudge it with violet and crimson, then turn it to a black velvet canopy sprinkled with starry diamonds. He'd not seen his beloved Scotia in eleven hundred and thirty-three years. That was hell right there for a

Highlander, to live exiled from his motherland. This stage city most definitely wasn't his home though, and the foreign sky, he now stood under only reminded soul of the time he was now wasting. The incantation that was spoken to release him from the mirror wasn't a permanent one.

It only granted him an agonizingly short time of freedom.

The Dark Glass's magic would reclaim him after a time, despite his resistance. It didn't matter how fast or far from it he would flee, didn't matter what Druid wards he wove about himself, after a time—and it was never the same interval; one moment he would be free; the next, back in his prison.

As much as Soul wanted to lay in the grass, breathe in the fresh air and revel in the world once more he knew time was running short on his freedom and he had business to take care of before the mirror reclaimed him. Business that involved finding a certain man named kilik before he could run back to his boss and inform him where Soul and the mirror were now at. So standing tall and stretching his arms out wide, Soul prepared for the man hunt. He smiled wickedly at the thought of once again hunting and taking down his prey. It had truly been too long

* * * * * *

 

Shadows swirled, darkness reigned. But the man moving silently through the night was not disturbed by the empty void that was the night.He was an assassin, the darkness was his ally, his old friend, and his protection. He did not fear anything that could be lurking in the dark, being trained to handle anything. Kilik did not know fear... until tonight. He crept quietly, sticking to the lovely shadows. A game of cat and mouse was afoot. He knew that he had to be the first to strike, to have the upper hand. So he waited in the shadows, feeling safe and secluded by the dark veil of night. Only he wasn't alone like he thought. The beast fell upon kilik, swift and fast. Brutal and silently. Kilik met his end. His last swimming visions of the world were haunted with flashes of white hair, a mouth full of razor sharp teeth that smiled manically, and blood red eyes. The kind of eyes that nightmares are made of.

* * * * * *

 

It had taken Soul some time to track track down kilik, most of the night in fact. The city was an unfamiliar hunting ground for him. Thinking like his prey, though, Soul had decided that the best course of action was to wait close by. As soul had hoped the foolish man hadn't even left the area completely. Why he made the deadly mistake of coming back Soul could only guess. Probably hoping to sneak back and finish off the woman with the green eyes.

His thoughts both gentled and grew fiercer as they turned toward her. That woman, kilik had called her Maka. She was something of a mystery to Soul.

She had boldly faced her attacker and held her ground. She was a wee slip of a lass, but recklessly brave. What a woman.

Fiery, determined, courageous, she was a stunning woman, with golden hair falling softly down her back. A heart-shaped, delicate-featured face, and the greenest eyes he'd ever seen.

Her ass was rather delicious looking too, if he cared to admit it.

During her face off with kilik he'd seen in great detail each intimate curve in her low-slung blue jeans and snug green sweater. He'd even glimpsed part of her panties—which couldn't have covered more than a fraction of her generous bottom, fashioned as they were from little more than ribbons—peeking up from the waistband of her jeans. The white lacy stuff had been adorned by a bright pink butterfly at the base of her spine, making it seem her panties had been designed to slide up from her jeans to taunt a man's eye. Men must be paragons of restraint in this century, he'd thought with a snort, staring fixedly at the scrap of frothy fabric rising from between the twin globes of her ass, or a bunch of bloody eunuchs. Creamy sun-kissed skin, eyes of jade, mouth of a temptress.

As Soul had anticipated, she'd endeavored to convince herself that none of last eve had happened. On those infrequent occasions he'd been glimpsed by the uninitiated, they blamed everything and anything to deny the possibility of his existence. He, on the other hand, would replay over and over a single moment from last eve, convincing himself it had indeed happened. Soul would not easily forget this Maka woman. She'd rubbed up against him, hands teasing his bare skin. He hadn't felt the touch of anyone in a very, very long time, let alone the touch of a beautiful woman.

Soul's arousel had shot up so painfully erect that his balls had jerked and his seed had nearly exploded out of him right then and there. The feel of her against his body had caused a thing he'd never before experienced: a violent jolt that had speared straight to the core of his soul. It had been all he could do to force her hands away and walk out the door calmly. It had taken every ounce of his will to not simply turn on her, drop her to the floor, and spread her for his pleasure. Forget about her assailant entirely. Bury himself inside her and stay there until torn from her body by Dark Magic. But no, she was in mortal danger that she couldn't possibly begin to fathom or hope to survive.

He now had two missions: to foil his brother's plans by keeping the dark glass out of his reach and keeping this Maka woman safe.

He wouldn't let her life be snuffed like some frail candle flame caught in a deadly tempest not of her own making. Soul also needed her. "Twenty-two days," he murmured. After more than a millennium of bidding time, his vengeance was now dependant upon a laughably finite number of days. Maka Albarn didn't know it yet, but she was going to help him get them. If not willingly, then by means of every Dark Art he knew. And he knew a lot of them. Had practiced most of them. And excelled at all of them. Wesley wasn't the only one who'd wanted the Dark Glass.


	7. Reality?

So guys this is the shortest chapter I have ever written. I guess there's a first time for everything though. :)

Life has just been hitting me hard, trying to make me do adult things like bringing home the bacon, paying the bills, and other yucky things.

No worries though! I will be updating more next week.

Now on to the story! Enjoy :)

* * * * *

Maka awoke feeling rather stiff, cold, and with the beginnings of what promised to be a perfectly vicious headache. Her neck was kinked from sleeping funny and she must have pushed her pillow off the bed in the middle of the night, because there was nothing remotely downy beneath her head. She opened her eyes and pushed herself up, intending to take some Advil, retrieve her pillow, and lay back down for a few minutes, but the moment she opened her eyes, she had to add utterly-perplexed-as-to-her-current-location-in-the-universe to her list of complaints. Unfortunately, her cranky, sleep-muddled respite from reality was far too brief. As soon as she sat up, she discovered she was not in her bed as she'd thought, but on the sofa in the Professor's office, and the events of last night sledgehammered back into her brain. Groaning, Maka dropped her head forward and clutched it with both hands. Impossible events: a stranger in the office who'd tried to kill her; an absurd tale that the mirror was Old Stone Age; a man inside the mirror whom she'd freed—allegedly a ruthless killer. Insane events. Face buried in her palms, she whimpered, "What's happening to me?" But she knew what was happening to her; it was painfully obvious. She was losing it, that was what. And she wouldn't be the first graduate student to crack under the strain of an overly ambitious load. Hardly a term passed without one or two dropping out of the program. The survivors always shook their heads and gossiped mercilessly about how so-and-so "just couldn't take the pressure." She knew; she'd been among them. But I can take the pressure! I'm doing great; look at my GPA! Maka protested inwardly. Right. Uh-huh, logic countered flatly, so what other explanation is there for the crazy hallucinations—or dreams—or whatever they are—that you've been suffering for the past few days? Maka sighed deeply. There was no denying it; in the past few days she'd had two distinct bouts of . . . well, something . . . during which she'd not only been incapable of distinguishing reality from fantasy, she'd not even been in charge of her own fantasy. Which hardly seemed fair, she thought, biting back a bubble of near-hysterical laughter. If a girl was going to lose her mind, shouldn't she at least get to enjoy it? Why on earth would she conjure the perfect male specimen, the most incendiary of hotties, then make herself the hapless victim of some bizarre murder plot? "I just don't get it." Gingerly, she rubbed the pads of her index fingers in small circles on her throbbing temples. Unless it had actually happened. "Right. Uh-huh." A man in a mirror. Sure. Still holding her temples, she raised her head, peering about the dimly lit office, seeking clues. There was no indication that anyone but she had ever been there. Oh, the lamp was on the floor, rather than in its usual perch on the table, and a book was lying on the rug near the wall, but neither of those things could be construed as conclusive evidence that someone else had been in the office with her last night. People were known to sleepwalk in the midst of highly vivid dreams. Squaring her shoulders, she turned her back on the relic, not daring to look at it. Moving stiffly, she retrieved her backpack from the floor, scooped up the books the professor wanted, stuffed them into her bag, let herself out, and locked up the office. Walking briskly out into the parking lot Maka was suddenly bombarded by flashing lights and a thick swarm of students speaking excitedly. "What's going on?" Maka asked the nearest person, who turned out to be a wide eyed brunette. "There's been a murder on campus!" She whispered. Max heart lurched painfully at the girl's words. "It couldn't be." Pushing her way through the crowd Maka forced herself to the very front of the epicenter. Police officers swarmed around, trying to put up crime scene tape and keep the frenzied students back.

"Please, everyone stay back!" A burly police officer bellowed.

" We could not find an I.D., but if anyone knows anything please come forward and make a statement."

Maka, being rather short elbowed the last few people out of her way, giving her a clear view.

Maka instantly felt sick at the sight; her whole being filling with dread. There, crumpled up on the ground, with his neck broken and turned in a grisly manner, and a look of pure terror frozen on his face, was the man from Maka's dreams. The man who had tried to kill her. Maka couldn't breathe, her vision suddenly blurring. She had to get away. The crush of the crowd and the scent of death weighed on her heavily. It was too much. Maka stumbled backwards, shoving people as she fled the parking lot and back into the main building. "What on earth is going on?" she half-whispered, her breathing short. Maka pulled out her phone and shakily dialed the professor's number. She needed answers, and she needed them now. She needed to know what the mirror really was and what the hell was going on. The professor didn't answer. Maka tried again, and then again for good measure. Nothing.

Then, suddenly, the suited man's words from last night replayed in her head.

"The professor and I have already had our time together this evening."

Maka felt cold as her mind turned over slowly.

Oh god, the professor was dead.

Murdered.

Maka didn't know why, but she knew in her heart that he was truly dead. With tears running down her face, Maka walked toward the professor's office. She did not know why she was going, but her feet carried her there, despite her brain screaming at her to turn around and run for it. Maka unlocked the door.

She forced herself to look in the mirror. Directly into it. Hard silvered glass. Nothing more. Forced herself to stand up. Walk over to it. Place her cold palms against the cold glass. Hard silvered glass. Nothing more. There was NO way anything had come out of it.

What now? Maka had expected something to happen.

Should she strike up a conversation with a relic? Knock on the glass? See if anyone was home? Try to summon a spirit? Make like it was a Ouija board or something? As fate would have it though, she didn't have to do a thing. As Maka removed her hand the glass shimmered slightly, then cleared.

There, reflecting clear as day, stood the towering, half-naked, absolute sex-god of a man standing inside the mirror.

And he was scowling at her.

"It's about damned time you came back, wench."


	8. Nothing is free

When Maka was seventeen years old, she'd almost died. She'd gone to one of those indoor rock-climbing gyms (because her best friend had called to tell her that the football player she had a crush on was home from college that weekend and he and his friends were supposed to be there) and taken a horrible fall, breaking multiple bones and splitting her skull. She'd missed the best parts of her senior year in high school, recuperating at home with her head shaved from where they'd inserted a metal plate to piece her skull back together, listening to other people's stories of proms and parties and graduations. And the guy she'd been so crazy about hadn't even been at the climbing gym that day. Maka learned a few things from the experience though.

Sometimes when things got bad, a sense of humor was a person's only saving grace. You could either laugh or you could cry, and crying not only made you feel worse, it made you look worse too. It occurred to her as she stood there, staring at the thing in the mirror that couldn't possibly be in the mirror, in a room where a recent attempt on her life had been made—said room's previous occupant having been murdered recently himself—that the events of the past few days certainly qualified as bad, even by conservative standards.

Maka started to giggle.

She couldn't help it. The sex-god's crimson eyes narrowed and he growled. "This no laughing matter. There is much of which we must speak and time is of the veriest essence."

Maka giggled harder, one hand to her mouth, the other clutching her side. Time is of the veriest essence. Who talked like that?

"For the love of Christ, wench, summon me out," he said, sounding exasperated. "Someone needs to shake you."

"Oh, I don't think so," Maka managed between giggles. Giggles that were starting to sound just a tiny bit hysterical. "And I am not a wench," she informed him loftily. And giggled.

He growled softly. "Woman, you summoned me out last eve and I did you no harm. Will you not trust me again?" She snickered. "I thought I was sound asleep and dreaming the other night. It had nothing to do with trust."

"I killed the man who was trying to kill you. Is that not reason enough to trust me?"

Maka stopped laughing. There it was. He was the one who'd snapped the suited man's neck and left him lying dead on the commons. Though a part of her brain knew it had to have been him—whether such events had transpired in a delusional world or The Real One. His remark drew her gaze to his hands. Big hands. Neck-snapping hands. After a moment's hesitation, she stepped warily back a step from the mirror. Another pause, then she slowly shook her head. The giggles were gone. A thousand questions were not. Jamming her hands into the front pockets of her jeans, she stared at the mirror. She closed her eyes. Squeezed them shut hard. Opened them. Tried it twice more for good measure. He was still there.

Oh, shit.

"I could have told you that wouldn't work," he said dryly, eyeing her skeptically from his prison.

"Am I crazy?" Maka whispered. "No, you're not daft. I am here. This is indeed happening. And if you wish to survive, you need to listen to what I have to say."

"People can't be inside mirrors. It's not possible." Maka argued weakly.

"Tell that to the mirror." He thumped his fists against the inside of the glass for emphasis.

"Funny. But not convincing." Oh, that was weird, seeing him pound on the mirror from the inside!

"You must resolve your own mind on the matter. Best do so before another comes to kill you." His blasé response argued his case to her. Said he knew he was real, and if she was too dense to figure it out, it wasn't his problem. Surely a delusion would endeavor to self-persist, wouldn't it? But how could he be real? She had no precedent for dealing with the inexplicable. Fact-finding. All I can do is explore what's happening, and reserve judgment until I know more. Maka thought bewildered. Toward that end, shedding light on things, she reached for the wall switch and flipped on the overhead. And got her first truly good look at him.

Crimeny, Maka thought, eyes widening as if to drink in even more of him. The two prior times she'd caught glimpses of him, they'd been briefly snatched and the room had been heavily shadowed. She'd absorbed only a general impression of him: a big, dark, intensely powerful man. She'd not seen the details. And what details they were! Stunned, she looked down. Up. Down. Up again. Slowly.

"Take your time, lass," he murmured, so softly she scarcely heard him. His next comment was deliberately beyond her audible range, a silky "I plan to with you."

He was tall and lithe, stuffing the mirror from top to bottom of frame. Powerfully built, with wide shoulders and lean powerful muscles. He wore a fabric of crimson and black around his waist—an honest-to-God kilt, if she wasn't mistaken—bronze wrist cuffs engraved with celtic knotwork, and brown leather boots. No shirt. He had wicked-looking black and crimson tattooed runes covering half of his body, starting from the bottom of his rib cage, creeping up the side of his sculpted chest, up over a nipple, and across his shoulder. Each powerful and lightly muscled bicep was also encircled by a band of tattooed crimson-and-black runes. A thick, silky trail of white hair began just above the navel on his abs and slid down into the plaid. Maka's gaze got stuck there for an awkward moment. Her eyes widened even further. Sucking in a shallow breath, she jerked her gaze away. A flush heated her cheeks. She'd just ogled his penis. Stood there, blatantly eyeing it. Long enough that he had to have noticed. Something was just not right with her. Her hormones had somehow gotten seriously out of whack. She was an artifact-ogler, not a penis-ogler. She forced her gaze up to his face. It was as sinfully gorgeous as the rest of him. He had the chiseled, proud features of an ancient Celt warrior: strong jaw and cheekbones, a straight, aristocratic nose, flaring arrogantly at the nostrils, and a mouth that curved into a knowing smirk. Light stubble shadowed his sculpted jaw, it matched the color of his hair. His eyes were burnt-crimson, his skin pale and lightly scarred from old battles.

He dripped primeval, elemental power, looked as much a relic as the mirror itself, a throwback to a time when men had been men and women had Done As They Were Told. Maka's eyes narrowed at that thought. She couldn't stand men like that. Chauvinistic, domineering men who thought they could order women around, just for the heck of it.

"You wouldn't mind being submissive for an hour or two with him." Her body whispered.  
Most definitely not, Maka argued with herself.  
It didn't help that he looked like the kind of man who wouldn't take "no" for an answer, who would tolerate zero inhibitions on a woman's part; the kind of man that, once he got a woman in bed, didn't let her out again until he'd done everything there was to do to her.  
"Summon me out, woman," came the tight, low command laced by that sexy Scots burr. His voice was as incredible as his appearance. Deep and rich as hot, dark buttered rum, it slid down into her belly, pooling there in a slow burn.  
"No," maka said faintly. No way she was letting all that . . . whatever it was, too much testosterone by far . . . out again. "Then I bid you, woman, cease looking at me like that."  
"Like what?" she bristled.  
"Like you wish to be using your tongue on me again, but on more than my back." He caught his lower lip between his sharp teeth and flashed her a devilish smile.  
"I told you, I thought you were a dream."  
"I'll be any dream you wish, woman. You need but summon me out." His gaze raked over her, burning hot, lingering at her legs.  
God, she had long legs. Soul thought lazily.  
Heat suffused her skin where his gaze skimmed. "Not. Going. To. Happen," maka snapped.  
He shrugged lightly, powerful shoulders bunching. "Have it your way, wench. You will definitely die horribly and needlessly. Doona say I didn't offer my aid." He turned in the mirror then. The silver encasing him seemed to ripple, the black stain around the edges flowed and ebbed as if the surface were suddenly liquid, then he disappeared, making it once again a mere looking glass.  
"Hey, wait!" Maka cried, panicking. "Get back here!" She needed answers.  
She needed to know what was going on. What the mirror was; how any of this was even happening; who was trying to kill her; would there really be more assassins sent after her?  
"Why should I come back?" His deep butter-rum voice resonated from somewhere within the glass. "You obviously doona need my help."  
" I need to know what's going on!" Maka pleaded.  
"Oh? Nothing in this world is free, woman," his voice laced sweetly.  
"What are you saying?" Maka asked the smooth silver surface. God, she was conversing with a mirror. Alice in Wonderland had nothing on her.  
"Tis plain enough, isn't it? I have something you need. You have something I want." He whispered from the other side of the mirror. Maka went absolutely still.  
Her breath caught in the back of her throat and her heart began to hammer. She moistened suddenly parched lips.  
"Wh-what?"  
"You need my protection. You need me to keep you alive. I ken what's going on, who's coming after you, and how to stop them."  
"And what exactly do you want in return?" Maka asked warily.  
"Och, many things, lass. But we'll keep it simple and start with freedom."  
Maka shook her head savagely. "Uh-uh. No way. I don't know the first thing about you."  
"You know all you need to know," his voice said flatly. "You know you'll die without me. Maka cringed at his words.  
"Sorry to be blunt, but you ken I'm right. I've been stuck in this bloody frigging mirror far too long for civility, I'm only being honest."  
Maka swallowed. Audibly. Her mouth had gone so dry that she heard tiny things crunch as her Adam's apple rose and fell. She cleared her throat. Suddenly there he was in the mirror again, looking at her with those strange eyes, silver rippling like diamond-spiked water around him. That sexy, arrogant mouth curved in a smile. If he'd meant it to be reassuring, she thought, shivering, he'd missed the mark by a mile. It was a wolfish  
smile full of leashed power and chained heat. Barely leashed. Barely chained. It occurred to her then that, had she gotten a good look at him the other night, she would probably never have released him, whether she'd believed herself to be dreaming or not. The killer she'd thought so terrifying was no match for this man. They weren't even remotely in the same league. Breaking the suited man's neck had probably been as easy for him as absently swatting a fly. Whatever he was, he had something more. Something normal people just didn't have. Maka backed up quickly and fumbled behind her for the doorknob.  
"Let me out," he said, low and intense. "Say the words. I will be your shield. I will stand between you and all others. I will be your weapon and your protector. It's what you need and you ken it. Doona be a fool, woman." Shaking her head, Maka turned the knob.  
"Will it be no then? Prefer to die over choosing me?" He asked skeptically. "Just what is it you fear I might do to you that would be so terrible?"  
The way his heated gaze was lingering on certain parts of her made it quite clear some of the things he was thinking about doing to her. Which of course made her think about them, too, in great detail. And there she was, thinking about his body again. What on earth was wrong with her? Had her ovaries somehow gotten stuck in a permanent ovulation cycle? Were her eggs firing indiscriminately and constantly—and in some perverse, inversely proportionate fashion—with greater enthusiasm the worse the man seemed for her? Yanking open the door, she backed out into the hall. "I need to think," Maka muttered, her face flushing red.  
"Think fast, Maka. You've not much time," he said, raising a pale eyebrow at her.  
"Great, just great," Maka huffed. "Every-freaking-body knows my name." With a fierce little scowl, she slammed the door so hard the frame shuddered.  
"The next one he sends after you may arrive any moment," came his deep voice through the door, "and will be more sophisticated than the last. Maybe it will be a woman. Tell me, lass, will you even see death coming?"  
Maka gave the door an angry little kick. "Shut the hell up you damned mirror."  
"Doona venture far. You're going to need me soon, and need me bad," Came his laughing voice.  
Maka gritted a rather foul word or two at the door that he shouldn't have been able to hear, but he did. It made him laugh even louder and say, "A physical impossibility, woman, or, believe me, most of us men would."  
Maka rolled her eyes and didn't bother locking the door as she turned on her heals. Maybe she'd get lucky and somebody'd steal the damned thing and get it out of her hair. The sounds of his laughter followed Maka through the hall she now fled down.  
"Stupid mirror!"  
Soul chuckled to himself as he heard her. Oh, she would be back. He had no doubts about it.  
And oddly Soul found the idea of seeing her again quite enjoyable.


	9. Hello chaos

OPTIONS

1\. Go to the police. Tell all and request protection.

2\. Get in touch with the original delivery company, ship mirror back, hope that fixes everything.

3\. Flee country.

4\. Check self into a mental hospital with padded walls, they're safer.

Maka finished the last of her coffee, pushed aside the mug, stared down at her pathetic little list, and sighed.

She was still feeling shaky in the pit of her stomach, but compiling her list of options had calmed her a bit and forced her to take a realistic look at a completely surreal situation. Number four was out: it reeked of casting one's fate to the wind and, when all was said and done, if she had to be in a car wreck, she'd prefer to be the one driving when it happened—control of one's own destiny and all that. Number one was out. The police would laugh her right out of the station if she tried telling them.

What would she even tell them?

I found a broody sex-god who was after his freedom, who just happened to be trapped inside a ten-thousand-year-old-plus mirror, who might also be a ruthless criminal that had been . . . er, paranormally interred inside said mirror for the . . . er, safety of the world. And now people were trying to kill her because she witnessed the craziness.

Uh-huh. Wow. Even she thought she was nuts with that one. That left numbers two and three as potential solutions. The way she figured it, fleeing the country and staying out of it forever—or at least until she was reasonably certain she'd been forgotten about—would cost a whole lot more than trying to ship the thing back, even with the exorbitant price of insurance figured in, and Maka had to believe that if she just returned the relic, whoever was after it would leave her alone. After all, what was she going to do? Talk about it, for heaven's sake? Tell people about the impossible artifact once it was gone? Totally discredit herself and ruin any chance she might one day have of a promising future in the field of archaeology? As if. Surely she could persuade them of that, whoever they were. Anyone with half a brain would be able to see that she'd never, in an Ice Age, talk. Maka glanced around the coffee-house she sat in; the cushioned wood booths were sparsely populated at this time of night, and no one was sitting near enough to eavesdrop. Pulling out her little blue cell phone, she flipped it open, dialed Info, and got the number of Allied Certified Deliveries, the name she'd seen emblazoned on the side of the shipping crate. At 8:55 P.M., Maka didn't really expect an answer, so when she got one, she sputtered for a moment before managing to convey the purpose of her call: that she'd gotten a package she wanted to return, but she'd not been given a copy of the bill of lading, so she didn't know where to ship it back to. Making no effort to mask her irritation, the woman on the other end informed her that the office was closed.

"Please, it's very important," Maka begged.

"Alright," the women relented.

"What can you tell me about the delivery?"

Swiftly, Maka detailed the date, time and the pair of delivery men who had dropped it off. There was a long silence. Then, "Ma'am, those delivery men were murdered over the weekend. Garroted, just like that professor man that's been all over the news. Police won't leave us alone." she spat bitterly.

"They're acting like my husband's company had something to do with it, like we have shady dealings going on or something." The lady paused for a moment. "What did you say your name was again?" Feeling like she'd just been kicked in the stomach, Maka hung up. Things were getting out of control.

Maka didn't go straight to him. She refused to do that. The thought of such a swift show of defeat was too chafing. He looked like the kind of man who would gloat too. The thought of seeing that pompous jerk smirking at her just about killed her resolve to go back. Maka knew she had to go though.

The past few days had been a study in humility for her. Not a single thing had gone according to anything remotely resembling The Maka Albarn Plan For A Good Life, and she had the bad feeling nothing was going to for quite a while. So she stubbornly toughed it out in the little coffee shop that was adjacent to the campus. Maka waited until midnight, sipping still more coffee that her frazzled nerves really didn't need, savoring what she suspected might be her last moments of near-normalcy for a long time, before caving in to the inevitable. Maka had no desire to die. Crimeny, she'd hardly even gotten to live yet. Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans. Her friend Blair had given her a coffee mug with that quote on it a few months ago. If you spun it around, the other side said: When did having a life become an event you had to schedule? She'd stuffed it way in the back of her cupboard and not looked at it again, the sad truth of it shaving too close to the bone. No, she certainly wasn't ready to die. She wanted at least another sixty or seventy years. She hadn't even gotten to the good parts of her life yet. Problem was, she didn't suffer any illusions about her ability to, as he'd so succinctly put it, "see death coming." She was a college student, an archaeology major, at that. People were not her forte. Not living ones, anyway. Sad fact was, Death could probably stalk up to her wearing a hooded black robe and toting a scythe, and she'd get all distracted wondering about the age, origin, and composition of the scythe. It was time to put aside her pride. Ergo, like it or not—and dear God, she didn't—she needed him. Whatever he was. The professor was dead. The delivery men were dead. She'd been next. Three out of four down. She felt like one of those ditzy heroines in a murder mystery, or one of those fluffy romance novels, the loose end that needed tidying up, the one the psychopath kept coming after. The helpless, girly girl. And she'd never considered herself helpless in her entire life, nor girly for that matter. Finishing the last of her coffee Maka steeled herself before heading back to the university. It was a short walk, but it took all her willpower not to keep looking over her shoulder for invisible assassins.

Once inside Maka stood outside the door to the Professor's office yet again. Stiffening her spine, Maka mentally prepared. She was about to fling herself upon an impossible being's mercy.

Either he would protect her as he claimed, or he really was some cosmically evil villain, justly imprisoned and lying through his teeth, who planned to kill her—the way things had been going for her lately—gruesomely and with much blood, right there on the spot. If that was the case, she was damned if she did and damned if she didn't, her demise a mere bit of squabbling over place and time, so she should probably just buck up and get it over with. Maka sighed deeply as she pushed the door open. Good-bye life as she knew it, hello chaos.

Hopefully not just good-bye life.

"Okay," she told the silvery surface with another sad sigh, "I think we can make a deal." He was there before she'd even fully formed the word "think." Maka finished the rest of the sentence a bit breathlessly.

A slow, exultant smile curved his lips. "Deal, my ballocks. Get me the bloody hell out of here, woman."


	10. Questions of doubt

A/N: Writing: somewhere between torture and fun. Oh, but what a lovely torture it is! That being said, I have recently taken some personal time to escape this hectic world to write another chapter. I hope you enjoy! :)

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"Don't give me excuses," Wesley snarled into the phone. "Kilik is dead. I need her in Chicago now." He rose and stood before the tall windows of his study, staring out at the London dawn as the first faint streaks of sun burned off the fog. The sky beyond was still dim enough that he could also see his own reflection superimposed on the tinted glass. It was Thursday morning. He had twenty days. Wesley turned his gaze to the dark spot on the silk wallpaper where the Dark Glass had hung for so long. It was now empty. Soul's captivity had been a constant source of amusement to him—the legendary Keltar, the most powerful of all Druids of his time, caged and outwitted by one Wesley Evans. His hands fisted, his jaw clenched. That empty spot would be filled again, and soon. Returning his attention to the conversation, he snapped, "The Alban woman knows she's in danger now. There's no telling what she'll do. I need her taken care of immediately. But first, I need that damned mirror back. Kilik said it was in the professor's office. Have her ship it to my private residence the moment she obtains it. Then get rid of the girl and anyone else who's seen it." Damn kilik. The police were asking too many questions, and he suspected at least one or two officers had seen the Dark Glass, which meant retiring a few members of law enforcement, and those cases never closed. In the past he'd not denied kilik his preference for strangulation, so long as he went in, disposed of all problems before the police found any bodies, and got out fast, before an investigation was even opened. But he hadn't. He'd failed with the woman and ended up dead himself. Which gave Wesley no small amount of pause. How had kilik ended up on the commons with his neck broken? He could think of one man that possessed the deadly strength and skill to snap the assassin's neck as if popping chicken bones: Soul Evens. And if that was the case, someone had let him out of the mirror. Not good, not good at all. The only person he could fathom might have done so was the Albarn woman. According to Kilik, when he'd last checked in, there were four people in Chicago who'd seen the Dark Glass and one Maka Albarn was the final one to be dispatched. Wesley knew well that his brother had a way with women. His upper lip curled in disgust. So much was wasted on his brother.

Not just looks, strength, and charisma, but wild, pure magic. The kind of power Wesley had envied. And envied for a very long time. Wesley had worked dozens of lifetimes to achieve a mere fraction of the power that his brother had merely been born with. Lucky bastard.

His brother was no fool.

If the Albarn woman had indeed been seduced to his brother's bidding, then Wesley was sending one of his best assassins to her death. She had come into his service quietly, but had quickly one of his favorite female assassins, but even she would be a lost cause. He'd have his answer soon enough though. If she went missing, he'd know he had a far more serious problem on his hands than he'd thought.

He had to get her to the university as soon as possible.

"Tell her to put her other contract on hold. I need her now." A pause. A growl. "I don't believe you have no way of reaching her. Find one. Get her in Chicago today or else." He listened a moment, holding the phone away from his ear. After a long pause, he said tightly, "I don't think you understand. I want her there now. I'd advise you to pass on my orders to her and let her decide." He hung up the phone, terminating the call. He knew what she would do. She trafficked in death for a living, and feared little, but she feared Wesley. She was the only one of his employees who had seen his true form. She knew his true nature. She would obey. He rubbed his jaw, eyes narrowed. Halloween was too swift approaching. For the first time in centuries, he felt a whisper of unease. He'd been untouchable, virtually invincible for so long that, he didn't quite recognize the feeling. At least he knew exactly where the mirror was. That alleviated much of his unease. Still, if it wasn't in his possession within a very short time, he would have no choice but to go after it himself. He greatly preferred not to. Soul had once had immense power before being locked away in the dark glass.

Dare he confront his brother with his full powers intact on unwarded ground? Surely, after a thousand years, he'd surpassed Soul and was the greater sorcerer at last! He turned away from the windows, wishing he felt certain of that. It had not been his superior sorcery that had put Soul where he was. It had been well-played deceit and treachery. Wesley grimaced at the idea of going toe to toe with his brother. Perhaps he wouldn't have to though.

Perhaps Soul hadn't been freed. Perhaps Kilik had merely fallen prey to another assassin. They did that sometimes, went after each other for money or glory or the challenge of it. Yes, maybe it was too soon to be worried. He'd know for certain in a day or two when Tsubaki made her move. Then he'd decide upon his next move.

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Soul stood rigidly, hands fisted at his sides, waiting. He'd known she would return. She was no fool. She'd been wise enough to identify the mirror as her most effective weapon when kilik had threatened her; he'd not doubted she'd see the wisdom of his offer. She was a bright woman, he could tell by the green fire that burned in her eyes. Soul had not been certain how long it might take her to come back, and time was everything to him now. Twenty days. 'Twas all he needed from her. 'Well.. not, by far, all he wanted from her. What he really wanted from her would bring a blush to the cheeks of even the most practiced woman. Soul shook his head, reining in his lust filled thoughts. He couldn't lose track of his mission. Suddenly, he heard the slamming of a door, determined stomping of little feet, then her voice, sounding none too thrilled. Soul let out a sigh of relief and rushed to the opening of his prison. Standing a few feet beyond his prison, staring at him, her dark green eyes were huge, her lips softly parted, and her chest rising and falling with each anxious breath she drew.

She looked terrified, yet determined.

"I'm not letting you out until you answer a few questions," she informed him coolly. Soul snorted with impatience. Of all the moments for her to get contrary! Women certainly knew how to pick them. "Wench, we have no time for this." Soul growled, his red eyes narrowing slightly. "Wes has no doubt already dispatched another assassin who is drawing nearer as speak." " 'Wes'?!" Maka pounced. "Is that who wants the mirror back?"

"Aye." Soul grumbled. 'Wes' who?" Maka asked, eyes lighting up with interest. Soul shifted his weight from foot to foot. Crossed his arms. "Why? You think you might know him?" he snapped sardonically, one pale brow arching. When her nostrils flared and her chin tipped higher, he sighed and said, "Wesley Evans." Maka nodded slowly, the name not really ringing any bells.

"Who and what are you?" She finally asked, eyeing him critically. "You called my name when you summoned me last eve. Tis Soul. As for the what of me, I'm but a man." He said giving her his best attempt at a reassuring smile.

"The suited man said you were a murderer." Maka accused, her voice was poison-apple sweet. "Remember him? The one you murdered."

"Och," he said indignantly, his smile fading. "I did what I had to, if not he would have killed you lass." Maka squared her shoulders, fighting the shudder she felt clawing at her spine.

"So why are you in a mirror?"

Maka brightened, as if a sudden cheerful thought had hit her. "Are you, like, a genie? Can you grant wishes?" "If you mean a djinn, even the feeblest of bampots ken they doona exist. Soul said, chuckling. No, I doona grant wishes." "Yeah, well, everyone also knows men in mirrors don't exist." Maka shot back. Soul smiled widely. He enjoyed this woman's wit. So how did you come to be in the mirror then?" Maka asked with a sigh.

"I was tricked. How else would a man end up in a mirror?" Soul scoffed as he leaned against the inside of the mirror. "How were you tricked?" " It's a verra long story lass." Maka opened her mouth to press further, but she was cut short. " It's a story I'm not ready to speak about yet."

Maka's eyes narrowed like a cat's. "That assassin man also said the mirror was an Unseelie piece. I looked up 'Unseelie' on the 'Net. It's not a classification of artifact. It's a classification of fairy"—she scoffed. "What, I ask you, am I supposed to make of that?" Soul rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Woman, we've no time to discuss such matters now. I'll answer all your questions once you've freed me and we're on the move." The lie spilled easily from his tongue. Soul fully intended to leave as quickly as possible.. right after he indulged in a delicious taste of this Maka woman. Once she freed him from the mirror, the magical barrier that blocked his Druid powers would be lifted. On solid ground again, he could harness the powers of old to his advantage. Then, this Maka woman would be vulnerable to his powers. He would use one of his favorite spells on her, the spell of obedience. This spell, granted for a short time the ability to influence anyone close enough in range to do his bidding, without question or hesitation. Oh yes, he had quite a few commands in store for the lovely lass.

Soul was a man who'd been without a woman far too long, and his hunger was immense. Contemplating the erotic orders he would give her stiffened his cock.

Bring that sweet ass over here, lass. Open that lovely mouth of yours and lick this. Turn around, woman, and let me fill my hands with those splendid breasts while I bend you over the— "Why are you staring at me like that?" Maka squeaked, her face turning pink. Jarred from the lustful stupor of his thoughts, Soul stepped back, drawing silver around his lower body to conceal the rising of his kilt. He doubted such blatant proof of his intentions would serve as persuasion to free him. "Just lost in thought lass." Soul said with a shrug. He was more than a little embarrassed at his lack of restraint and mentally kicked himself. Soul tried to give her a reassuring smile, but it must have been too sharky, because she took a step backwards.

"Why would someone want to trick you into a mirror?" Maka asked hesitantly after a moment.

"Because by binding me to it, the one who tricked me gained immortality. Each Unseelie relic offers a Dark Power of some sort. Living forever, never aging, never changing, is the Dark Glass's gift," Soul growled. His blood boiling just thinking about his brother. Bloody hell, what was it going to take to get her to let him out of the blethering glass? "Oh." She stared at him blankly for a moment. "So let me get this straight: You're telling me that not only are there people inside mirrors, and fairies somewhere busily crafting artifacts endowed with paranormal attributes, but there are also immortals skulking around my world?" Soul nearly snarled aloud with frustration. He sighed heavily and ran a hand through his silvery locks, making them stand up in a messy array. "I very much doubt immortals 'skulk,' woman. And, to the best of my knowledge, the Fae haven't crafted aught in a millennia, not since they withdrew to their hidden realms. And doona be facetious. I'm merely answering your questions."

" These are Impossible answers." Maka said frowning.

"I've never seen an immortal, and I've certainly never seen a fairy." "Best hope you never do see either of them." Soul warned. "Why—?"

"Maka," he said softly, cutting her off. He said her name menacingly, infusing her name with the promise of infinite dangers. "I tire of this question game. I am going to count to three. If you let me reach that number without having begun the chant to release me, I will take back my offer. I will not so much as lift a finger when the next killer comes for you. I will sit back and watch you die a slow and heinous death. His face was serious, but Maka crossed her arms in defiance. "I'm beginning now. One. Two—"

"There's no need to get pushy," Maka snapped. "I planned to say it; I just wanted to clear a few things up first—"

Soul smiled wickedly as he continued to count.

"Thr—"

"All right, I'm saying it! I'm saying it!"

"Bloody hell, wench, finally!"


	11. Tit for tat

Hey guys! Sorry for the chapter delay. I had meant to upload this chapter days ago, but with it being earth day last week, work has been keeping pretty busy. I planted 200 trees these last two weeks! Did anyone else plant a tree for earth day? If so, you should tell me about it and we can discuss! :D Yay for making the world a little more beautiful! 

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"—Soul Eater, drachme se-sidh!" Maka finished breathlessly. Her heart hammered inside her chest, she eased back nervously, her gaze riveted to the mirror. The silver went smoky and dark, boiling with shadows, like a doorway opening onto a storm. Then the black stain around the edges expanded, swallowing up the entire surface. Simultaneously, golden light blazed from within the engravings on the frame, painting fiery runes across her clothing, the furniture, and the walls of the office. The disconcerting sensation of spatial distortion in the room increased to a nails-on-a-chalkboard degree, rasping over her nerve endings. Then, as abruptly as it had begun, the light dimmed and the blackness cleared, revealing a watery silver that rippled and danced like the surface of Lake Michigan on a windy day.

One booted foot pushed through, then a powerful thigh, as the one-dimensional image crossed some kind of fairy-tale threshold and transformed from a mere reflection into a three-dimensional man, bit by bit. It was impossible. It was terrifying. It was the most thrilling thing she'd ever seen. Out came those kilt-clad hips, lean abdomen, followed by that sinfull face, his white teeth flashing sharp in an exultant smile, his strange eyes glittering with triumph. He gave a regal, full-of-himself toss of his head, and rolled his shoulders, as he fully exited the mirror. The sensation of spatial distortion eased and the glass went flat silver again, reflecting his back side to Maka's great dismay.

The man had presence, that elusive quality that drew others, even against their will. And he knew it. From the looks of him, he'd always known it. Arrogant, cocky prick. But what kind of man was he? Was he a murderous one? That was the important question. Maka squared her shoulders, ready to face him. "If you're going to kill me, I'd appre—"

"Take of your clothes lass." Soul commanded, a wicked smile gracing his face. "Excuse me?" Maka asked indignantly.

Soul's smile faultered. That command should have worked right away. Maybe his magic was a little rustier than he'd thought.

Lifting his head higher, he tried again.

"You will bring that sweet rump over here and kiss me now." Maka gaped, mouth open, then snapped it closed. Opened it again. Her head suddenly itched just beneath the skin, above her metal plate. She rubbed at her scalp. "As if." She meant to hiss it indignantly, but it came out more of a squeak. Sweet ass? He thought she had a sweet ass?

"Oh, I so don't think that's going to happe—"

"Cease speaking," he ordered, his voice rising. "You will not speak again unless I tell you to." Maka drew back like a cobra, scratching her scalp again. He couldn't be serious! He certainly looked like he was. After a moment's stunned silence, in a voice sweet enough to cause cavities in porcelain caps, she said, "You can go fuck yourself, you great big domineering brute. Wake-up call: Guess what? We're not in the Stone Age anymore." Maka blinked at him. A sudden thought occurred to her; one that would explain much about this man. "How long have you been inside that mirror?" she demanded. A muscle worked in his jaw. "I told you to cease speaking." Despite his persistent asininity, her temper was decreasing as her suspicion that she was correct was increasing. "Well, duh, clearly I'm not going to, so you may as well answer my question." His eyes narrowed, that fiery gaze swept her from head to toe intently. "Eleven hundred and thirty-three years." Whuh? Maka sucked in an astounded breath. That would place him in—no! The ninth century? No way. A living, breathing, ninth-century man, right here in front of her, somehow trapped in an ancient relic and cast forward eleven centuries? Chills rippled across every square inch of her skin. Even the hair on her head felt as if it were trying to rise. "Really?" She nearly squealed the word, she was so delighted. The remnants of her hot temper collapsed into a pile of ash. Oh, the things he might be able to tell her! Had the legendary King Cináed mac Ailpin been his contemporary? Had he lived through those mighty battles? Had he seen the unification of the Scots and Picts? Were those incredible wrist cuffs genuine ninth-century work? What were those tattoos, anyway? And those runes on the mirror—was it possible they comprised a previously undiscovered language? Holy shit! For that matter, was it really from the Stone Age? How could that be? Where had it come from? Who'd made it? What was it made of? Now that Maka had conceded the reality of his existence, she had a gazillion questions about him. They all collided in her mind, getting tangled up in one another, and she ended up gaping at him in stunned silence. It took her several moments to realize that he was regarding her with exactly the same expression. As if he couldn't quite believe she existed. There they stood, in the late Professor's office, ten feet separating them, each eyeing the other with blatant incredulity and suspicion. Now, that was just silly. What could he possibly find hard to believe about her?

"Say my name, wench," he commanded. Maka shook her head, stupefied by all her questions, befuddled by his requests. "Soul? Why?"

He looked mildly appeased. Then, suspicious again. "Scratch your nose, woman."

"It doesn't itch."

"Stand on one foot." Maka wrinkled her nose at him. "You stand on one foot."

"Bloody hell," he breathed, as if to himself, "it can't be." He gave her that intent scan from head to toe again, seemed to hold a brief but heated inner discussion with himself, then nodded toward the desk. "Go sit in that chair."

"I don't feel like it. I'm perfectly happy standing right where I am, thank you."

"Moisten your lips?" His gaze fixed on her mouth. It took considerable effort not to moisten them while he was looking at them like that. It made her fixate on his own mouth. "What's your deal?" Maka finally asked, tearing her eyes away from his now frowning mouth.

"Christ," Soul whispered slowly, "I've been in there for so long, I've lost it."

" 'Lost' what? Oh, you mean your mind. Yeah, well, not going to argue with you there." Maka said, rolling her eyes.

Soul stared at her a long moment in silence, frowning.

His spell should have worked on her. Was he that much out of practice or was this woman somehow resistant to his magic?

Maybe he couldn't harness his Druid powers because he was in the middle of a city? Druid powers fed off of nature and other natural elements. Or maybe he had lost his mind while

Imprisoned. Then his brow eased and his eyes cleared as he swung his gaze back to her. "No, my mind is still as extraordinarily superior as it has always been. No matter, if you doona listen to me. There's more than one way to skin a cat." God, he was arrogant. Maka marveled at the sheer, unmitigated cockiness of the man. Had all ninth-century men been that way? In retrospect, it occurred to Maka that she should have seen it coming. She was, after all, a fan of history, a studier of mankind, a ponderer of ancient civilizations. She knew what life had been like a thousand years ago for women. Men had been Men. And women had been Property. And somehow, she still managed to be utterly unprepared when he ducked that shaggy silver head of his and charged.

"Oomph!" Maka grunted, as his shoulder made contact with her stomach. Her feet left the ground, her world tilted precariously, and the next thing she knew, she was hanging upside down over his shoulder. One of his strong arms banded her waist, pinning her to his shoulder. The other hand splayed firmly on her bottom. She parted her lips and was just about to let loose a screech that would make a banshee proud, when his hand moved. Possessively. Intimately. Dipping right between her legs. Heat exploded red-hot inside her. Her mouth, opened on an intended shriek of rage, released a soft, stunned exhalation of air instead. His big warm hand rested there a moment, applying a firm but gentle, relentless pressure.

He said nothing. She said nothing, either, mostly because, at the moment, all she could think of to say was: Excuse me, but your hand seems to have slipped between my legs and I'm actually enjoying it more than I should. Soul moved abruptly, his hand leaving just as quickly as it had arrived. It returned, lower, banding her to him by the backs of her knees. Maka's reason returned also, accompanied by fury. The sad part was that what he'd just done had made her so instantly, incredibly flustered that she wasn't sure if she was more furious at him for doing it in the first place, or for stopping when he had. And that made her even more furious still. "Put me down," she managed to hiss. So maybe it came out a bit more breathy than sibilant, but it was the best she could do upside down with her face in his back. His shirtless, nothing but warm skin clad back. "Put me down!" Maka demanded, kicking her legs furiously, and giving a savage bite to his lower back. "Doona bite me woman, or I might be inclined to return the favor." Soul said huskily as he turned his head to flash her a sharp smile. "Put me down!" Maka bellowed again.

"Haud yer wheesht, woman." "Hold my what?"

"It means 'hush,' Maka. Just hush. Would it kill you to hush?" "Probably," Maka snapped. "Put me down. I can walk."

"No. I've no desire for you to be master of your destiny in any manner, however small. You are too unpredictable."

"I'm unpredictable?"

Maka asked in disbelief.

"Aye." he grumbled.

Maka was speechless a moment. Then she pinched his butt, hard. It was all she could reach at her upside down angle.

"Ow!" Soul exclaimed, then smacked her bottom.

"Ow!" she yelped.

"Behave," he growled. "Tit for tat, lass. Remember that." The arm banding her waist relaxed, he repositioned her on his shoulder, then tightened his grip again, making her realize she probably couldn't get off his shoulder if her life depended on it. That single muscle-bound arm was as unyielding as reinforced steel. The abruptness with which he shifted her jostled her backpack, still looped over her shoulders. It was heavy, crammed with her laptop, textbooks, wallet, extra clothing, and a few other odd things.

"Ow!" she yelled again. Put me down this instant, you brute!" "Unbelievable," she thought she heard him mutter. "Oh—you think so?" Maka snarled. "I'm the one flung over a primate's shoulder. I'm the one entitled to be saying 'unbelievable.' Not you." "Unbelievable," he muttered again. Soul spun about so quickly that she nearly puked the five extra cups of coffee she hadn't really wanted but had drunk anyway in the café earlier, all over that magnificent butt she'd just pinched, and yes, like his arm, the man had buns of steel. Plucking up the massive mirror, he tucked it beneath the arm he'd freed by shifting her, and turned for the door. Woman on one side, artifact on the other. Not even straining. And Maka knew how heavy that mirror was. The two deliverymen had wrestled with its weight. Stalking out into the corridor, he demanded, "Which way?" Maka raised her head for as much clearance as she could gain with thirty-eight pounds of back pack resting against her skull. "Why should I tell you?" she said snottily. Soul bit her hip and growled threateningly. "Left," Maka gritted. He turned left and took off at a trot. The strain on her neck was too much. Maka put her head back down. Her breasts were in her face and, as she bounced against his back with each step he took, her backpack thunked her steadily in the back of the head. Maka had always thought her boobs were a little on the small side, but at least her face was somewhat cushioned against the repeated blows. She wasn't getting her nose hammered rat-a-tat-tat into his spine. Thank God for small blessings. "Where are you taking me?" she mumbled against her forest green sweater. "I am taking you to whatever manner of transportation you have. You are then taking us to a suitable lodging where we can lay low."

"I am?" Maka mumbled into her boobs. "If you wish to live." Soul grumbled.

Maka did wish. She mumbled unintelligible directions to the lot in which her car was parked.

"You're mumbling, lass." Soul griped. She mumbled again. "What was that?" She mumbled again. "Did you just say something about your breasts?" Soul asked warily. "Och, Christ, they're in your face aren't they?!" He stopped so abruptly Maka's backpack thumped the back of her head in double time: a soft whump followed by a solid thwack, dazing her. When she felt his chest shaking, it took her a few moments to identify the motion. He was laughing. The rat-bastard was laughing. "I so hate you," she told her breast.

Meaning not them, of course, but him. As he continued to shake with laughter, the fight went out of Maka, up in a puff of smoke.

She was tired, she was freaked out, and she really just wanted to walk on her own two feet. "Would you please put me down?" she said plaintively. She suspected he must have felt the diminishing of tension in her muscles, read her body language, and knew, mentally, she'd capitulated. His laughter subsided. He bent and gently deposited her on her feet. His red gaze glittered with amusement and a hint of sexual heat that he made no effort to disguise. "Better?" Soul finally asked as cupped her chin with one hand, thumb brushing her lower lip. Maka twisted her face away violently. "Better. Come on. Let's get out of here before someone sees us with the professor's—"

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Maka?" Barked a sharp voice behind her. Maka turned disbelievingly, the figure of a smallish man rushing towards her. Maka unfortunately knew that voice and knew it well. It belonged to the university's dean, Marcus Belt. What—had the mere thought of not getting caught been a self-fulfilling prophecy? Marcus's office was a few hundred feet down the hall from the late Professor's. When Maka had passed it earlier, there'd been no lights on. Didn't he have a life? What was he doing here so late? Was nothing going to go right anymore? Great, just great. This was just what she needed: The dean running off to tattle to anyone who would listen that not only had Maka been caught on campus way past standard hours and gone into the now dead professor's office, but she'd made off with a priceless, mysterious artifact. If the police did the least bit of checking into things, they would discover that what she'd taken was what the (murdered) deliverymen had delivered to the (murdered) professor. And she would be oh-so-incriminatingly on the lam, nowhere to be found, last seen in the company of a strange, kilt-clad stranger, "stealing" the fabulously expensive black-market relic that three people had already died over. Without getting the slightest chance to tell her side of the story and point out that somebody'd tried to murder her too. As if anyone would believe her anyway. Shit, shit, shit. When all this was over, she really wanted to be able to finish her degree at the university where she'd begun it, not via correspondence courses from jail. That kind of stuff just didn't look good on a resumé. "Oh, for crying out loud, Mr. Marcus, it's two in the morning! What are you doing here?" Maka asked, trying her best matronly voice on him.

"I believe I just asked you that." Close-set brown eyes behind rimless glasses darted from her to the half-naked man toting the mirror, and back to her again. What could she say? Dredging her mind, Maka drew an empty net. Try though she might, she couldn't think of a single excuse for her current circumstances—convincing or otherwise. She would have been grateful even for an absurd one, but apparently her brain was done for the day. As she stood there, staring at him like the biggest idiot, Soul surprisingly came to her rescue, taking care of the problem. "You will go back in that room from whence you came, and remain in there, silent, until well after we've gone. Now." Marcus turned and cantered dutifully back down the hall toward his office without so much as a neigh of protest. Wow. Maka blinked up at Soul, dumbfounded. "Hmm," Soul murmured softly to himself, as he stared after the retreating man. Maybe 'tis only her after all.

"Puny little man," Soul scoffed, as Marcus obediently closed the door. Puny? Maka thought as she looked from Soul to where Marcus had disappeared. Was that maybe why Marcus had slunk off—because he was puny and this Soul was so much more forbidding? Maka tipped her head back, eyeing him. Tall, well built and well muscled, he dwarfed the small dean. With that wild white hair, whisker shadowed jaw, sharp smile, and the wicked red-and-black tattoos licking across his body, he looked downright primeval: an ancient, deadly warrior stalking the halls of the university. She supposed his mere appearance might have been enough to make Marcus decide he clearly wouldn't be winning any arguments with this man, so there was little point in beginning any. How nice it must be to have such an impact on the world! "That was amazing," Maka said fervently. "He is such a pain in the butt. I can't tell you how many times I've wished I could get him to just go away like that. Like he had no choice but to obey me, or something." "Come, lass." Soul mumble half heartedly, as if he was lost in deep thought.

He closed a gentle hand around her upper arm. "We must away ourselves."

And they awayed.


	12. Lodgings

Maka glanced over at Soul, barely able to see him over the top of the huge mirror that was wedged sideways between them and the bucket seats of her car. A good quarter of the mirror was hanging out the open hatchback, which was bungeed carefully around it, with various bits of her clothing—jackets and sweaters and T-shirts that tended to accumulate in her car as the seasons changed—wedged protectively between metal and glass. Soul looked miserably uncomfortable. It had been as difficult to cram him into the tiny car as it had been to finesse in the mirror. They'd argued over the top of the looking glass the entire way downtown, resulting in the headache now pounding in Maka's temples. This guy really took backseat driving to a whole new level. "Must you cease movement so abruptly! Christ, woman, must you catapult forward after each cessation? Are you certain you've strapped the mirror securely? We should stop and check it. By the gods, wench, try nudging this beast gently, not kicking it with both heels!" Maka promptly ignored him, making him narrow his crimson eyes at her. "Horses! What the bloody hell is wrong with just riding horses? Have they all been slain in battle? Where have they all gone? Maka finally cranked up her favorite Godsmack CD in an effort to tune him out. Soul let out a roaring moan that rattled the windows in her car: By all that's holy, woman, what is that hideous noise? Cease and desist! A battlefield at full charge sounds better than this!" Huh. Maka loved Godsmack. The man clearly had no taste in music. Scowling, Maka stuffed in Mozart's Requiem—which she reserved for only her broodiest days, usually during finals week. Soul smiled faintly as he closed his eyes, letting Mozart's magic course through him. Silence finally came. Wow, Maka had found his shut up button in the form of music. She decided to keep that little tidbit of information for future use. Soul even began to whistle cheerfully along. Cheerfully. Go figure.

It was the first time she had seen him look somewhat relaxed.

An hour later they pulled under the canopy of the Sheraton in downtown Chicago. Maka had wanted to go home and get a few things, but Soul had immediately, vehemently vetoed that. The next assassin could already be awaiting you there, woman, he'd said, and Maka had shivered. How creepy to think someone might even now be lurking in her dark apartment, waiting to kill her. How odd to think she couldn't go home. Maybe not for a long, long time. Maybe never again. This was it, Maka had realized while driving. She'd gone too far to turn back now. She was officially on the run. Her situation wouldn't have been so dire if Marcus hadn't caught her leaving with the artifact. But he had. That milk was spilt though, and there was no point crying over it.

"You're going to have to stay here," Maka informed him as she opened her car door. "I'll get the room and come back for you."

"I doona think so," Soul growled. "I will not leave your side so long as I have breath within me and fire in my viens."

"You sure are a dramatic one aren't you?" Maka asked, eyeing him critically. "Nay lass, I am a Druid." Soul boasted with a wolfish smile. Maka rolled her eyes at him.

"You don't look like the rest of us, you can't go barging in there." "Nay," he agreed. "I am bigger. Stronger. Better." The look she gave him said she had something nasty on her tongue that she couldn't scrape off. "That's not what I meant. There's no way we'll be able to keep a low profile with you walking around dressed like that." "I won't leave you," he insisted with a frown. Before she could utter another word, Soul grappled with the handle, opened the door, and stepped out. Or rather uncramped and unfolded himself onto the pavement, closing the door behind him. For a man from the ninth century, he sure seemed to know a lot about modern-day things, Maka mused, though it seemed to be from having observed them, not from having interacted with them. When he'd first gotten into her car, he'd examined everything, twisting knobs and pushing every button. Cursing silently under his breath the whole time. He'd even eyed the steering wheel consideringly. Fortunately, he'd seemed to think better of it. Unfortunately, she didn't think his restraint would have lasted much longer. Thank God they had made it to the hotel.

Maka stared at him across her car for a moment, and he stared back, both waiting for the other to cave. "Fine come with me, but don't cause a scene."

Maka finally relented. She was tiring of his brooding stare. Soul smiled triumphantly at her and nodded his head eagerly.

Soul quickly moved to the rear of the car and began unstrapping the mirror. "We can't take that in with us!" Maka screeched in horror. Belatedly, she realized it would have been much smarter to go to some seedy No-Tell Motel way out on the outskirts. But the Sheraton down on the lake was the only hotel she'd ever stayed in (during an archaeology seminar last summer), and when they'd left campus, she'd headed for it, driving on a sort of bemused autopilot, far too busy defending her driving skills to be thinking clearly. Getting him into a room without causing a memorable stir was going to be difficult enough. They needed to be inconspicuous. Taking the mirror in with them just wasn't possible. Then again, she thought, frowning, they could hardly leave it in the car, either. "Leave it to me, woman."Soul said as he hoisted the mirror on a shoulder. It was then that Maka realized, with a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach, that it was only a matter of time before the police came and arrested her. As if a grim portent, a few blocks down the street a police siren began to sound. She shivered. Oh yeah. Only a matter of time

Shaking her head Maka walked up the front steps of the hotel, her highland shadow following dutifully behind her.

"You will not look at me," she heard him say to the valets as they reached the wide swinging doors. "You will see only her." Soul paused a moment as if thinking of something brilliant, then said. "And you will not look at her legs."

Maka blinked and burst out laughing. The man was such a Neanderthal! Like her legs were his or something! What did he think—that the valets would just dutifully obey him as Marcus had? She had news for him: He wasn't that impressive. "You're not a god," she said, casting a dry look at him. Five valets stood around the door, looking at her, and only at her, and only at her face. "May we take your luggage, ma'am?" one of them said, looking her dead in the eye. Men rarely did that. Five gazes remained fixed on her face. Mystified, she said, "No luggage," and removed her car key from the key ring. The vallet took her key and left. Not one of them looking at Soul. How was that possible? A wild eyed highlander in an honest to god kilt, toting a mirror and smiling like a maniac.. how could you not look at him?

Mystified Maka shook her head and walked into the hotel. Man and mirror at her heels.

 

Soul smiled widely as they walked into the lodgings.

He still had it. Bloody hell, he still had it! There was nothing wrong with him at all, he could feel the deep thrumming of magic in his body as the silly men at the door had obeyed him. So if there was nothing wrong with his magic, then there had to be something wrong with her. What an odd lass she is. Soul thought as he watched her from the corner of his eye. How could she withstand that much raw magic?

She looked so small and helpless right now, as they stood in the middle of the large lodgings. Soul felt an overwhelming urge to shield her. Taking his free hand, he gently wrapped it around her upper arm. Maka looked up at him quickly, surprised by his sudden touch. "What are you doing!?" She whispered" "Protecting you." He whispered back with a smile. Maka rolled her eyes. "I'm perfectly safe right now." "Doona argue with me lass, it puts me at ease having you stay close." He chuckled while pulling her slightly closer.

"Fine." Maka huffed as she pulled them further into the lobby.

She steered them into the brilliantly lit, polished, and gleaming lodgings. Christ, this place was grand. What was wrong with a little pub or inn? Or did those not exist anymore?

God, it felt good to walk free though! And to walk free with such a beautiful woman on his arm? Soul sighed happily. It was heaven to be alive. Even though they were being hunted. Even knowing what lay ahead. It was far more than Soul thought he'd get at such a late hour in the game. Maka's city seemed much like what he'd seen of London, with insignificant differences. Both enormous, both massively populated, frenetic with cars and people rushing to and fro, but her city had taller buildings than what he'd glimpsed from Wes's study.

Soul continued tossing out commands in Magic as they strode into the lodgings she'd selected. "Doona look at us. Move out of my way. Do not notice the mirror. We are not here." The lass kept rolling her green eyes at him. Soul kind of enjoyed it. Obey spells were extremely complicated and could cause terrible, irreversible damage if done wrong. It was much easier to turn eyes away than attempt to make people forget. Still, nonspecific commands such as "we are not here" weren't truly effective. They served mostly to gloss things over a bit, make events seem dimmer. For the magic of Obey to be truly compelling, the commands needed to be concise, precise. Commands too vague or complicated could get messy. Orders that would strongly counter a person's fundamental beliefs could cause intense pain.

"Why don't you just stand here and I'll go get a room?" Maka suggested as she tipped her head back and looked up at him. "And you don't have to hold on to me," she added peevishly. "I'm a big girl, I can go by myself."

Maka squared her shoulders, expecting him to argue with her.

He only smiled. "Where?" " 'Where' what?" Maka asked a little confused. This man's mood was like a rollercoaster.

"Where does one 'get a room'?" "Oh. Over there." She pointed. "Wait here."

"You will cease attempting to give me orders, wench." Soul tried, thinking maybe something in their earlier environment had conflicted with his use of magic. "You will cease ordering me to cease giving you orders," Maka said exasperatedly. "I'm just trying to help, but you still need to lose that whole me-Tarzan, you-Jane thing." Soul nodded his head, although he had no idea what she was havering about, but it didn't matter. What mattered was the getting of a room. Against her wishes for him to stay put, he escorted Maka to where she'd pointed, GUEST CHECK-IN, and propped the mirror carefully against the short wooden counter.

A trim, auburn-haired, fortyish man with a bristly mustache came over, looking as if he'd rather be anywhere else at this hour. "You will give us a room. Now. And stop looking at me." Soul commanded. Beside him, Maka said hastily, "You'll have to excuse him. He can be a bit heavy-ha—oh, for heaven's sake!" She changed both sentence and direction of her gaze midstream, frowning up at him when the desk clerk obediently, and without protest whatsoever, averted his eyes and began processing the paperwork for a room. "People keep obeying you like you're some kind of . . . of . . . well, god . . . or something." "Well in my day, lass, I was. Can you imagine that?"

"I can't." Maka snorted." "I'm excruciatingly aware of that," he said dryly. "Well, why do they keep acting funny around you?" "Maybe, woman, they recognize a Man among men." He couldn't resist provoking her. "That would be Man with a capital 'M.' " Maka rolled her eyes, as he'd known she would. He bit back a smile. There was no point in explaining to her about spells or magic. She wouldn't understand; the wench was infuriatingly immune. Impossibly immune. His amusement faded. He narrowed his eyes, studying her for the hundredth time, trying to discern something—anything—different about her that might explain her magic deflecting condition. He couldn't discern a blethering thing. Of all the wenches the Fates might have appointed to serve as his reluctant savior, the humorless bitches had sent him the only woman he'd ever encountered that he couldn't control. This journey was definitely going to be an interesting one. "I'll just need a credit card," the man behind the counter was saying. Soul opened his mouth to use the spell again, but Maka was already handing the man something. He had no idea what it was. He shrugged. He didn't mind letting her feel useful. He knew women liked to feel important too. Plus all the use of magic he had been using was starting to drain him a bit. A millennia of being Imprisoned in that mirror had diminished his magic's stamina. He needed to rest and reconnect with nature. To find his ancient roots. He needed to practice and strengthen his magic again. But where in a huge city did one go to be with nature? He would have to ask Maka about it, and soon. Soul didn't like feeling vulnerable, especially when they were being hunted. "You'll be in room 102." The little man said, handing her an odd looking square. "Thank you." Maka smiled as she took it.

Mirror beneath one arm, the other wrapped around his woman, Soul let her lead the way to this '102' place. His woman?

What a strange thought. When did I start thinking of her as mine? Soul wondered as they walked down a long corridor.

This woman was different.

And this one, och, this one did something strange to him. A subtler version of that electrifying jolt he'd felt the first time she'd touched him had been happening each time he touched her. It made it almost impossible to keep his hands off her. The entire time she'd been over his shoulder, he'd felt a gentle current sizzling through the length and breadth of his body. Wherever their bodies were touching, he felt as if heated lightning crackled just beneath his skin. And Soul knew, though she pretended otherwise, that she felt it too. Maybe this stubborn lass wanted him? Soul shook his head and grimaced to himself. "You're getting fanciful Soul, you have to keep your head clear!" He told himself. But that was easier said than done.

It was hard to think about his mission when there was a long legged, green eyed wildcat standing so close.

Heaven help him! He was a goner.


	13. What a Scotsman doesn't wear

This is an old Scottish drinking song. I thought it very fitting for this chapter and couldn't resist sharing. :)

Well a Scotsman clad in kilt left a bar one evening fair  
And one could tell by how he walked that he'd drunk more than his share  
He fumbled round until he could no longer keep his feet  
Then he stumbled off into the grass to sleep beside the street

About that time two young and lovely girls happened by  
And one says to the other with a twinkle in her eye  
See yon sleeping Scotsman so strong and handsome built  
I wonder if it's true what they don't wear beneath the kilt

They crept up on that sleeping Scotsman quiet as could be  
Lifted up his kilt about an inch so they could see  
And there behold, for them to view, beneath his Scottish skirt  
Was nothing more than God had graced him with upon his birth

They marveled for a moment, then one said we must be gone  
Let's leave a present for our friend, before we move along  
As a gift they left a blue silk ribbon, tied into a bow  
Around the bonnie star, the Scots kilt did lift and show

Now the Scotsman woke to nature's call and stumbled toward the trees  
Behind a bush, he lifts his kilt and gawks at what he sees  
And in a startled voice he says to what's before his eyes.  
O lad I don't know where you been but I see you won first prize

X X X X X X X X X X X

The moment they entered the hotel room, Maka's gaze went instantly to the double king beds. So had Souls. And the air instantly became thick with one of those awkwardly tense moments where people either jumped on each other, or got as far away from each other as they could. Maka did a little crab-scuttle sideways, nearly sidling right back out into the hall, her face flaming bright pink. Soul smiled faintly, mockingly, at her, then stepped past her and thoroughly scanned the entire room before positioning the mirror against the far wall, facing the entry door. Maka had not missed that it also faced the beds, but she refused to ponder it overlong. For a moment they stood there eyeing each other critically, neither knowing what to do or where to stand.  
Maka stared at him, looking up and down. She definitely needed to get him some new clothes. For starters, he stood out too much, like he had fallen right out of some Scottish battle reenactment. Secondly, his clothing in question didn't leave much to the imagination; there was more skin showing than Maka felt comfortable with. He was lean and well built, being clad in nothing but a kilt was downright distracting! Plus the age old question, 'what did Scotsman really wear under their kilts?' That was a mystery that Maka, to her own shame, was far too intrigued with.  
No, tomorrow she would find him the baggiest, least revealing clothes she could find, then, maybe she wouldn't feel the need to stare so much.

"Oi!" Soul exclaimed, shaking Maka from her musings.  
Soul's gaze had swept past her to the bathroom. "Christ, he exclaimed, 'tis a modern garderobe!"  
"You mean a bathroom?" Maka asked, feeling a little perplexed at his enthusiasm. "Aye, lass, I couldn't see beyond the door to the one in Wes's study, though I've seen pictures. . . . He'd trailed off wonderingly. "Is that where he kept you . . . er, the mirror hung? In his study?" Maka asked softly. How strange his existence must have been living inside a mirror! She couldn't begin to fathom it. "Aye. Though I've seen most modern inventions in books and the like in his study, I've not had the opportunity to examine the real things up close." He turned to Maka, red globes silently asking. "Come on, Maka sighs, I'll show you how it works." Maka walked into the bathroom, Soul following, hovering unsure in the door way. Maka turned a handle on the sink, letting the cold water rush out. Soul's eyes lit up as he watched.  
Maka had expected that she'd have to give a quick bathroom demo, but once again Soul took charge.  
He plunged right into things, just as he had in the car, taking command, twisting handles and turning knobs, squirting little bottles of shampoo and conditioner until the room resembled a steam sauna, scented with perfumed toiletries. "Does this lodgings contain a kitchen and serving wenches, lass?" Soul queried, pausing long enough in his explorations to ask. Maka nodded, feeling suddenly too tired to speak. "Command us a feast, lass. I'm famished. Meat. Much meat. And some ale." Maka's stomach growled in response. "I'll order us up some room service."  
Soul nodded, desperately hoping that this "room service" was edible. Maka should have gotten the hint when Soul turned on the shower and began unfastening his wrist cuffs, but it had been a long day and Maka was running on empty. Without further ado, Soul turned his back on her and dropped his kilt. He stood there, utterly unself-conscious, wearing nothing but a leather sheath strapped to one lightly muscled thigh, holding a heavy emerald-encrusted knife. Maka squawked and back pedaled, slamming the door tightly behind her. Maka slid down the door, her fingers scrubbing at her eyes. She could hear him chuckling softly on the other side. The damn Highlander had no shame!  
She'd not been prepared for it, she hadn't expected for him to get butt-naked in front of her.  
Wow, and what a butt it had been..  
Geez, I guess that answers the age old question. Maka thought shakily as she uncrumpled herself from the floor. Unsteady legs propelled Maka from the bathroom door to the bed where she sank wearily. Maka's brain felt somewhat overloaded. "Don't forget the feast, woman!" Soul sang out from the bathroom, his voice muffled by the running water. "I heard you the first time!" Maka snapped crabbily. Maybe food would do them both some good though.  
Gulping a few steadying breaths, she grabbed the phone and ordered room service, putting it also on her credit card. "Why not?" she muttered to her reflection in the mirror that stood next to the bed. "I may as well charge with impunity." The way things were going, she probably wouldn't live long enough to have to pay it off anyway. Maka ordered steaks, with green beans and baked potatoes. Surely the stripping Highlander wouldn't object to her food choice.  
The reflection of the glowing red clock on the bedside table suddenly drew Maka's attention, blinking as the hour rolled over. 4:00 A.M. She stared at it in the mirror, aghast, realizing that in three hours and twenty minutes, classes would begin for the day. On Thursdays, she taught four one-hundred-level anthropology courses. Or she'd used to. She certainly wouldn't be teaching any today. She considered calling in sick, but decided it was wiser not to. When this was over, she'd figure out what kind of story to tell. She might be able to get away with claiming to have been forcibly abducted and fully exonerate herself. Which meant if she called in sick now, it would make her look like a liar later. I know it's odd for a kidnapper to let his kidnappee call in sick, but he was an odd kidnapper. Right. That would go over like a ton of bricks. Exhaling gustily, she turned her attention to her laptop that was perched on the bed and plugged it into the hotel line. Maka decided to check her E-mail while he was showering, partly in a no-doubt-pointless bid for the comfort of routine, but also to keep her mind off sex, which, with him around, was like trying not to think about chocolate while sitting in a person-sized fondue pot of the dark, creamy stuff, surrounded by flowering cacao trees. Pointless. Her inbox was filled with the usual: newsletters to which she subscribed to stay apprised of significant developments in her field; E-mails from students in the undergrad classes she T.A.'d, filled with impressively creative excuses as to why they should be the exception to the rule, forgiven their: a) absenteeism; b) failure to appear for an exam; c) late paper. The entertaining and inventive pleas for leniency were followed by spam spam and more spam.  
All mail sorted, Maka was about to log off when a new E-mail popped in. She scanned the sender's ID. Myrddin . She didn't know a Myrddin and had a phobia about viruses. If something happened to her laptop, a new one wasn't in the budget. There was no topic in the subject line, which meant, according to her stringent guidelines, there was no place for it but the Trash folder. As she slid the pointer over it, she got an instant bone-deep chill. She whisked her fingers over the mouse pad, jerking the pointer away. Slid it back again. An immediate, painful, bitter chill licked up her hand. She shivered, jerked the pointer off.  
Oh, that was just too weird. She frowned, thinking about the way it had arrived. Had an E-mail ever just popped into her inbox when she'd been sitting idle on the inbox page? Not that she could remember. Sometimes when she was refreshing a page, or reentering the inbox, new ones showed up, but one had never popped in like that when she was just sitting static on the page. Gingerly, she slid the pointer back over the topic line: NO SUBJECT. Grimacing at the immediate sensation that her hand had been plunged, dripping wet, into a Subzero freezer.  
Beyond the bathroom door, the shower still ran, and Soul still splashed. "Stop being silly," Maka scolded herself quietly. "It's just an email."  
Feeling brave, she clicked on it hard and fast and yanked her fingers from the mouse pad. She pressed her palm shakily to her cheek. It was as cold as ice. Wide-eyed, she stared at the screen. The E-mail contained three short lines.

Return the mirror immediately.  
Contact Myrddin for instructions.  
You have twenty-four hours.

That was all it said. There was nothing else on the screen, but for a line of nonsensical symbols and shapes at the very bottom. As she scanned them, a sudden shadow seemed to fall over the hotel room. The bedside clock dimmed, the overhead light in the little entrance foyer hummed, and the ivory walls took on a sickly yellowish hue. And as clearly as if a man were standing in the room with her, she hears a man's deep, cultured baritone say: "You will die, Maka Albarn." Whipping around, Maka scanned the room. There was no one there. Maka's heart slammed into her throat, pounding in her ears with a deafening roar. A cold sweat clung to her as her body began to shake uncontrollably. Why am I shaking? Maka wondered as she willed her body to stop. But it wasn't Maka's body that was shaking, no, it was something else holing on to her. Invisible arms that crept out of her laptop held tightly to her, shaking and thrashing her about. Maka tried to scream, but the invisible hands wrapped around her throat, cutting it off. Maka clawed desperately at her neck, tears running down her face. It was no use. Black spots began to swim behind her eyes. This is it, this is how I'm going to die. Maka thought hazily as her vision began to fade completely. Then, suddenly, the bathroom door flew open. Soul came crashing out of the steam filled room, a white towel thrown hastily around his lean hips. His eyes burning liquid fire as he snarled deeply, his teeth flashing a savage smile. While in the shower Soul had felt the presence enter the room, something was very wrong. Maka was in danger, he knew that it was Wes's magic. He could practically taste the vile stench of his brother's magic as it clung in the air. Soul's gaze quickly found Maka in the darkened room, she had fallen off the bed in her struggle and now lay thrashing on the floor. Soul growled and leapt for Maka, all the while chanting incantations. Maka felt strong arms wrap around her, and the strangling sensation left instantly. Soul held her tight, shielding her body with his as he continued to chant. Maka could feel the invisible arms hammering down on Soul's back as they clung to each other.  
"Halda vápni kyrru!" Soul shouted, his voice rumbling deep in his chest, his words causing the floor beneath them to tremble. Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the invisible force left; leaving the room stifling in the sudden silence. Maka held her breath, straining her ears, waiting and listening for any abnormalities.  
Only the sound of Soul panting heavily against her neck and her thundering heart could be heard.  
"What was that?" Maka whispered rather hesitantly, afraid her voice would incite something sinister. "Dark magic." Soul mumbled heavily into her neck where his head now rested.  
"Dark magic?" "Aye, tis fine." "How in the hell is that fine?" "Tis long gone now, it won't be bothering you again."  
"Are you sure it's safe?" "Aye."  
"Maybe you should get off me then?!" Maka half shouts, embarrassed to be underneath him, their bodies pressed Intimately together.  
She begins to desperately wiggle out from underneath him.  
"Don't you dare move lass." Soul practically growls in her ear, causing Maka to stop her squirming.  
"Let's just stay like this for a moment."  
"Is there something else in the room?" Maka asks with a shiver, her eyes darting across the room for eerie shadows.  
Maka feels him smile sharply into her neck.  
"No lass, I just like the feel of you." Soul chuckles roughly as he nuzzles deeper into her.  
"Get off"! Maka yells, smacking him smartly on his chest... his bare, very wet chest at that. Soul snickers and props himself up on his elbows, revealing that his hastily thrown on towel is riding dangerously low on his hips. Maka stares. She can't help it.  
He's looking down at her, but his damp hair hangs low and dripping, leaving his eyes in shadow.  
His skin is smooth and warm, despite the water still clinging to it. Maka can feel it soaking through her T-shirt.  
Soul smiles at her lazily, making no attempt to move off of her.  
"Um, look, I've been thinking, what's your plan, anyway?" Maka chirps, try hard not to get lost in that smile.  
"To bed you."  
"No, I mean, your plan that might actually work." She snorts, baring her teeth in a cool masquerade of a smile. "Ah, that plan. That would be to lean in now and kiss you senseless"  
"No, that's not the one I meant, either," Maka chokes hastily, her breath hitching slightly at the thought. He stares down at her with smoldering intensity. Soul lowers his mouth slowly, lazily, never breaking eye contact with her. Up close, he's beyond gorgeous. Those crimson eyes shimmering, framed by long snowy lashes. His skin is tawny-velvet, lightly stubbled. His lips sensual, pink and firm, and curved in the hint of a smile.  
"Tell me not to kiss you, Maka. Tell me right now. And best you make me believe you mean it," he warns softly, a breath away from her lips.  
"Don't kiss me." Maka wets her lips, unintentionally. "Try again," he says flatly. "Don't kiss me." She's blushing like an idiot. "Try again," he hisses quietly, as if in pain. "And beware, woman, 'tis your last chance." Maka takes a deep breath. "Don't." Another deep breath. "Kiss me?" Soul laughs, a cocky, rich purr of a sound.  
Crimeny, Maka thought dismally, as he lowered his sexy dark head toward hers, even she'd heard the wrong punctuation there.


	14. Wreck

Two inches. That's all the space between them now. Maka can feel his breath wavering over hers, inhaling her, questioning her. His eyes are muddled spires of hazy desire. He reaches out and strokes her cheek lightly with his thumb. Maka wants to flinch away from his touch, but her body is a dirty traitor. The warmth of his hand and the way his lower body seems to almost pin her down makes lightening splutter over her skin and nerves.

Maka watchs him with baited breath as he lowers himself, just a little. The space between their lips lessen slowly as a shaky sort of emotion overrides the atmosphere.

Soul watches her as well, like he's watching a train wreck. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows kissing her is the wrong thing to do; he's sworn to protect her, not ravage her. Surely he'd be damned to hell for an eternity for losing his self control. His honor as a warrior is on the line, his ultimate mission of revenge is on the line. There's a lot at stake, so much that he could lose. Ah, but there's so much to gain too, his body whispers treacherously. No, I can't do this, Soul thinks as he leans in closer, his body gravitating towards her on its own accord. No.

But those eyes are a little too wide and a little too green. And her mouth.. heaven help him. He can't stop. She was a wreck he should have easily avoided, but somehow, deep down, he knew she was a collision worth having.

Soul leans in, making up his mind at last. He's going to kiss her, and kiss her thoroughly; whether it damns him to hell or not.

Maka's eyes flutter shut as he closes the gap between them. Their lips briefly touch, a ghost of a kiss, like a whisper lost on the wind. Then, abruptly, his lips leave hers.

Maka blinks, confused. Soul is gone. Heavens, but the man could move fast! Maka sits up, looking dazedly around. "Where did you go?" she asks breathlessly. "Behind you, woman," came the tight, furious reply. She glanced over her shoulder. He was inside the mirror, propped by the bed, breathing hard, like he'd been running a race. She was panting herself, she realized. Her lips still tingled where he'd touched her. Why was he in the mirror? For that matter, how had he gotten in the mirror? Maka gaped at him, bewildered. "It reclaims me after a time," he said flatly. She continued gaping. "W-without preamble?" she stammered. "Just like that?" "Aye. It was not my choice to leave you in such a fashion." He grumbled moodily. His foul mood did not last long though, a feral grin quickly spreading across his face. "What are you so happy about?" Maka hissed, his face making her stomach do weird little flops. "Och, just enjoying the view." He chuckles.

"The view?" "See for yourself, lass." Soul backs up, disappearing as the mirror begins to shimmer then clear. Maka is left staring at the mirror, and her reflection balefully staring back. Her cheeks are flushed red, her hair is a mussed mess, and her jeans that had obviously been rucked down during their little tussle on the floor no longer hid the top half of her cheeks. The bastard had been staring at her rear. Horrified and embarrassed Maka sprung up, yanking her jeans back up her hips, causing her butt to jiggle slightly.

Soul made a choking sound from within the mirror. "Fuck, woman, you're killing me!" Cheeks flaming, (her face cheeks) she shot a scowl over her shoulder at the empty mirror.

"It's been a very long and bad day, I'm very exhausted. Go away and let me sleep and don't you dare wake me unless my life is in danger. And I do not want to talk about what just happened. Not now. Maybe never." She stiffly informs the mirror.

He laughs softly from somewhere within his prison. "As you wish, Maka." He replied smugly. Soul grinned to himself. They didn't need words. Their bodies spoke the same language, used identical vocabulary. Desire. Lust. Need. She could deny it, but it was there. He looked at her then, with her tired eyes and flushed face. Something hot and possessive flexed inside Soul's chest. It was a deep sort of ache he'd never felt before now. Maybe it was something more than just attraction between them. Maka sighed heavily. She was done with this day, and she was done with him. She had so many questions, like what the hell had just happened with that 'dark magic', was that even possible? And why the hell had she just let him kiss her?! Sure, it hadn't really been a true kiss, but that butterfly touch they had shared had done some major damage to her psyche. She barely knew this guy, and she was just going to let him kiss her? A guy who lives in a mirror as a matter of fact. She must be nuts! With a weary sigh Maka flops onto her stomach on the nearest king sized bed, letting the lush downy comfort her frazzled nerve and aching body.

A groan follows her. "Stop looking at my butt," she hissed fiercely into the sheets. She hears his laughter echo from the mirror.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Wesley Evan's rage could be heard nearly two miles away from his London estate, his anger amplified by heavy magic.

Slamming his fist down hard on his desk, he ended up cracking his computer keyboard in two.

Still having no word from Tsubaki, who was obviously working another job elsewhere, Wesley had become impatient, taking matters into his own hands.

Only his plan had backfired, literally. His desktop computer had just burst into flames, no doubt Soul's doing.

Now his computer was paying the price for his folly; the room now smelled of burnt electronics, as it sizzled and smoked on the desk.

How had Soul thwarted his attack so easily? Was his brother getting stronger?

Technology was such a grand thing, it made everything eaiser.. especially sending malicious spells over long distances.

This time it had not worked in his favor though. Plan B would have to suffice for now. Wesley picked up his phone and dialed it roughly, his anger still at a boiling. She answered on the second ring.

"Kim, I have a job for you." He barked angrily. "I'll send you the info. And don't you dare disappoint me!" He hung up, his head throbbing from using a good chunk of his magic earlier. Wesley walked over to the window and slid it open, letting clean air circulate through his study. Wesley growled angrily at his computer, cursing Soul's name all the while. Would Kim succeed in the return of the mirror or would she end up like Kilik had? Only time would tell now.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

Hours later, Maka awoke so hungry that her stomach was cramping. Rolling over on the miserably lumpy hotel bed, she glanced at the clock. No wonder she was hungry—she hadn't eaten in over twenty-four hours! The room service she'd ordered earlier hadn't come, for whatever reason: Either they'd tried to deliver it while she'd been stretched beneath Soul's rock-hard body, deaf, dumb, and blind to all but his erotic assault on her senses; or they'd lost her order; or it had arrived so late that she'd been already asleep. Since Maka rarely got a full night's sleep, she tended to drop off the moment her head touched the pillow, and slept like the proverbial dead, sprawled flat on her back, arms outflung.

Maka's stomach sounded a long, growling, painful protest. Fumbling for the light switch on the wall sconce above the bed table, she turned it on, picked up the phone, and pressed the button for room service. As she was placing her order for a double cheeseburger, fries, and a large Coke, the mirror rumbled: "Quadruple all of that if it contains meat!" Shrugging, Maka did so, assuming he'd eat it whenever he was able to come out of the mirror again. Until the mirror had reclaimed him, it hadn't occurred to her to wonder why he'd gone back in once she'd let him out that first night he'd killed the assassin. In her own defense, she'd had a lot of other things on her mind. Now Maka knew the answer. Apparently, he had no choice. Though he could be released from the mirror by the chanting of a spell, he couldn't stay out long. That was a problem. Exactly how did he plan to protect her from behind a pane of silvered glass? Appearing in the mirror, he stood there gazing at her from behind his choppy white mane. Replacing the phone in the cradle, she scowled at him. God, the man was beautiful. Every time she looked at him, he took her breath away. Made her forget all the important things she should be thinking about. Maka shook her head, striving for levelheadedness. It was time for more answers. "How often and for how long can you be released from that glass?" Soul leaned back against something in the mirror that she couldn't see, folded his arms over his chest, and crossed his booted feet at the ankles. Maka narrowed her eyes. "Wait a minute, how did you get your clothes back in there?" Hadn't he been wearing only a towel earlier? "I've had centuries to test the glass. Though the elements comprising it are beyond my fathoming, I've learned to exploit it after a fashion. 'Twas designed to hold humans, not inanimate objects, and I've learned to summon in inert items that reside in my field of vision." Soul said smiling, a smug sense of pride clearly evident. Maka blinked, glancing around. Kilt—gone. Boots—gone. Even his thigh sheath and knife were gone. Apparently he'd drawn those items back in while she'd slept. Oh, she had a million questions about the nature of that artifact! But first things first: her continued survival. "So?" she prodded. "How often?" He shrugged. "Try again now." Maka drew a deep breath. She really didn't want him out of the mirror at the moment. She wasn't prepared to deal with him in the flesh—all that seductive male flesh, at that—just yet. Still, she needed to understand the parameters of their situation. She recited the chant to release him. Nothing happened. He inclined his head. "I didn't think so. I cannot answer your question precisely, because Wes had never released me from my prison. I can tell you only what has occurred in the past. When you released me the first time I was out only for a few hours. This time I remained out for a solid 24 before the mirror reclaimed me. As for how often you may release me, there is no predicting it." "So, you can come out every day, for at least a while," Maka clarified. "Aye." "Which means you probably can't come out again until tomorrow morning?" Another shrug. "I doona ken. You should continue trying at frequent intervals, and we will eventually figure it out." "How do you intend to protect me if you can't stay out of that glass?" Maka asked peevishly. "Lass, we only need to evade Wes for a number of days. Twenty more, to be exact. Scarce any time at all. I promise you, I will keep you safe and well until then." Soul said, his face rather serious.

Twenty days?

That didn't sound so bad. Maka hadn't known there was a time limit to how long her life was going to be screwed up, and it was a relatively short one. Surely she could get her life back on track after only twenty out-of-control days, if things really would be resolved by then. She was grateful that she'd had the foresight not to call in sick. Her odds for survival and a return to normalcy were suddenly looking considerably brighter. One whopper of a good story might take care of things. It sounded almost too good to be true.

"Twenty days? Why only twenty though?" Maka asked curiously, wondering if there was some sort of hidden catch.

"Because the Compact that holds me bound to the Dark Glass requires that a tithe be passed through the mirror every century to reaffirm the Unseelie indenture. The next tithe is due this Hallows' Eve, on the thirty-first day of October, at midnight."

Maka gaped for a moment, wondering is he was serious. His crimson eyes did not waver.

Crimeny. Tithes, Compacts, indentures: Anytime she began thinking about resuming a normal life, she was reminded that she was currently up to her eyebrows in a fairy-tale world of spells and curses. And the scary part was that it was all beginning to sound somewhat reasonable to her. The longer she interacted with a man who lived inside a mirror the more inured she became to the strangeness of subsequent oddities. His existence was so inexplicable in and of itself that it seemed pointless to squabble over further inexplicabilities. Though she never would have believed it, magic existed. There was proof of it right in front of her eyes. Arguments over, case closed. Shaking her head wonderingly, Maka pushed off the bed—she'd slept fully clothed, but for shoes and socks—and went to stand in front of the mirror. She studied the fabulous frame with its odd symbols, stroking the cool gold of it, trailing her hand down over the silvery glass. Inside the mirror, Soul raised his hand, too, and traced the path of her passage, making it appear as though their fingertips met. She felt only cold glass. When the tips of her fingers passed over the black stain at the edge, she snatched them hastily away. It had felt icy, just like that strange E-mail, and it had seemed to almost . . . well, kind of . . . stick to her skin like a psychic leech as she'd pulled away, as if reluctant to release her. " 'Tis because it is an Unseelie Hallow, lass," he said softly. "What?" "The chill. Dark power is cold. Light power is warm. A Seelie artifact exudes a gentle heat. Mere rubbings of a page from the Unseelie Dark Book sucks the heat from a man's body. 'Tis said handling the Dark Book itself turns a man into something no longer human, day by day, robbing him of all remnants of inner warmth and light." Maka absorbed the information but refused to get sidetracked from the issue at hand. She needed to regain a measure of control that could only be achieved via a thorough understanding of her immediate situation, and as far as she could see, this Dark Book, whatever it was, had nothing to do with her problems at the moment.

"So this tithe, what exactly is it?" Maka asked hesitantly, fearing the answer. "Blood and gold."

"Blood!? Who's blood?"

Soul smiled softly at her from his side of the mirror. Doona worry yourself lass, tis only a little blood that's required. Plus Wes is not going to find us, so there's no need to fret."

"So, all we have to do is keep you away from this Wes person until after the tithe is due, and the spell will be broken? We just need to hide for three weeks? That's all?" "Aye."

"Then what—once the spell is broken and you're free?" Could he get rid of this man who wanted her dead? Assure her return to a nice, normal life maybe? Soul inhaled deeply, his crimson gaze gleaming with sudden, chilling brutality. When he spoke, his voice was hard. "Then you'll never have to worry about Wesley Evans again. No one will. This I swear." Maka stepped back, in spite of herself. With those words, he'd transformed from her highland hero to savage beast, lips drawn back in a silent snarl, nostrils flared, eyes narrowed and not quite sane. Madness born of a thousand-plus years of captivity flickered in those bloody depths, shadowy and cold as the inky stain on the perimeter of the Dark Glass. She swallowed. "You sound pretty sure of your ability to defeat him, considering that he's the one that stuck you in the mirror and probably the one who possessed my laptop," Maka felt obligated to point out. A wicked, feral smile curved his lips. "Ah, Maka, I'll win this time. Of that you may be certain," he said with soft menace. His words chilled her to the bone. There was such implacable surety in his voice, such savagery in his eyes, that she no longer entertained the slightest doubt whatsoever about Soul's ability to keep her alive. She had a feeling the man had a few tricks up his proverbial sleeves. Even stuck inside a mirror. Tricks she probably couldn't begin to imagine. Again, she had that sense of something more in him. Oh yes, one way or another, this man would keep her safe. "And how are you going to keep yourself safe from him?" The little alarm in her mind warned. Good question. Twenty more days. And he could be released from the mirror for at least a portion of each day. That was a lot of time they would have to spend together. For some reason that thought made the butterflies in her stomach start to riot.. like they were listening to Godsmack or something. "Room service!" The cheery call was accompanied by a sharp rap-tap-tap at the door. Brightening, Maka turned away from the mirror. "Thank goodness," she said. "I'm starving." She shot the mirror a 'get lost' kind of look over her shoulder.

Soul eased back, just behind the silver, where he could still see but couldn't be seen. As Maka walked toward the door, his gaze fixed on her luscious backside. A soft growl built in his throat. Christ, he loved to watch her move! Her stride was determined and purposeful, yet graceful and sexy. With a body like that, she couldn't help but be sexy. She had legs that went on for miles. Her loose golden hair only made her seem more womanly, showcasing the delicate, creamy nape of her neck, the fine bones of her shoulder blades, and the sweet slender bow of her spine.

Maka opened the door, something delicious smelling floating in. Food. Bloody hell. Soul's mouth began to water. He smelled meat. "You can put it here," Maka was saying, gesturing to the table by the windows. A slender, young woman with shoulder-length pink hair wheeled a tray into the room, pushing it down the narrow aisle between beds and furniture, then lifted the tray lid. Red meat. She'd not ordered fish or fowl, bless the wench! It had been over a century since he'd eaten, and he wanted meat with blood. The thought of actual food was a memory that had been tormenting him through the ages. Though inside the glass his existence was suspended and he suffered no bodily needs—no hunger, no thirst, no need to sleep or piss or bathe—that didn't mean he suffered no mental ones. He hungered. Holy hell, did he hunger! He'd whiled away entire weeks at a time, conjuring the memories of the tastes and scents of his favorite foods. Closing his eyes, Soul savored the aromas currently wafting past his mirror as the woman began unloading the cart.

Soul had no idea what tipped him off. He decided later that maybe it was the way she had looked over at the mirror, or maybe the woman's intentions were so intense and finely focused that he'd inadvertently felt her intent even through the glass. Whatever it was, Soul acted on it instantly, without hesitation. His eyes narrowed and his hand went to his thigh sheath. Snapping his eyes open, he whipped his dagger free, hissed the chant to part the veil of silver. And flung the eight-inch, razor-sharp blade, end over end, through the glass.


	15. Chapter 15

Maka backed away from the room service lady, shaking her head from side to side, mouth open on a scream. One moment she'd been making small talk with the hotel employee, the next something hot and wet and unexpected had sprayed her, splashing her face and hair, her sweater, even splattering her jeans. She'd squeezed her eyes protectively shut against it. When she'd opened them, it had been to find the woman, standing, eyes wide and glazed, lips moving soundlessly. With Soul's emerald-encrusted knife protruding from her throat. Belatedly comprehending what had sprayed her, Maka had almost thrown up. But when she'd opened her mouth, a scream came out instead. "Maka, you must stop screaming!" came the sharp command from inside the mirror. Maka knew that, and she was going to any second now. Really.

The woman staggered back into the TV armoire, knocked her head against it with a solid thud, collapsed, and slid down. Her body jerked convulsively, and she went abruptly still, half-sitting, half-lying, hotel uniform twisted about her hips. As Maka stared in shock, blood suddenly bubbled between the woman's lips, and her eyes went eerily empty. Oh, God, she was dead; the woman was dead! Soul pounded on the inside of the mirror with his fists. "Stop screaming, Maka! Bloody hell, listen to me, if you draw people to us, they'll think you killed her. No one will believe your story of a man in a mirror and I will not show myself. I'll let you go to prison, Maka!" Maka jerked, his harsh words a bracing slap in her face. She stopped screaming so abruptly, it turned into a screeching hiccuping noise, then silence.

He was right. If her screams drew neighboring guests to her room, she would be found covered with blood, in possession of a stolen artifact, with a dead woman on her floor—said woman having been killed by yet another artifact Jessi wouldn't be able to explain having in her possession. She'd be arrested in a heartbeat. And not just for theft, as she'd worried about earlier when leaving campus, but for murder. And she couldn't see a thing he might have to gain by showing himself and taking the blame. In fact, considering that all he wanted to do was to hide for another twenty days so he could have his millennium-old vengeance, he'd probably be happy to end up in the Chicago Police Department's stolen-goods/evidence lockup. He could hide really well there, under police protection. No, he certainly had no incentive to save her ass. Shit, shit, shit. Maka clamped her lips shut, unwilling to risk so much as another peep. "Shut the door and bolt it, Maka." She scrambled over the bed so fast that she fell off the other side. She'd left the entry door cracked, with the security bolt flipped between the door and frame when she'd let the woman in. Leaping up from the floor, she hurried to the door, eased it open only as far as necessary to flip the metal latch back in, ducking well back from the line of vision of anyone who might be beyond it, closed it, and secured the lock. She could hear voices murmuring down the hall and footfalls approaching. Maka didn't bother stepping away from the door. Though she'd been screaming for only a few seconds, she had good lungs and knew how loud she'd been. A few moments later there was a firm knock. "Is everything all right in there, ma'am?" came a man's worried voice. "We're in the room a few doors down and heard you screaming." Her heart hammering against the wall of her chest, she took two slow, careful breaths. "Uh, yeah," she managed, "I'm fine. I'm sorry I disturbed you." She forced a shaky, self-deprecating laugh. "There was a spider in the shower and I have a touch of arachnophobia. I guess I kind of freaked out." She injected what she hoped was a convincing note of embarrassment into her voice. There was a silence, then the sound of soft male laughter. "My friends and I would be happy to take care of it for you, ma'am."

Men. They could be so condescending sometimes, even when they thought they were only trying to be helpful. Maka had never been afraid of spiders in her life. And if she was, that was still no reason to laugh at her. Dead bodies— now they threw her. But she was no sissy about bugs. "No, no," she said hastily, "it's all right, my husband took care of it." Say something, she mouthed over her shoulder at Soul. "All is well now," Soul boomed. " 'Twas good of you to inquire." Maka scowled at him.

"All is well. 'Twas?" She echoed silently, wrinkling her nose. Could he have sounded more archaic?

Maka made a mental note to buy him a book on modern speaking.

At the sound of another man's voice, a note of cordial reserve entered her would-be-savior's tones. "You might want to call the front desk and let them know. There shouldn't be any bugs in the rooms. My girlfriend hates spiders too." "I'll do that. Thanks."

Go. Away. Maka thought angrily. As the footfalls faded down the hall, she sagged limply against the door. She made the mistake of rubbing her eyes and compounded it by looking at her hands. They were slick. Her lips parted. Breath rushed into her lungs, prelude to a scream. "Doona do it, lass," Soul hissed. "He won't believe you twice." Pursing her lips, Maka forced the air back out in small, silent explosions. She puffed short, shallow bursts, as if breathing in a paper bag. I am not going to scream. I am not going to scream. "Why did you kill her?" Maka asked a few minutes later, when she trusted herself to speak. "Look in the woman's hand. I cannot make out what it is, but she meant to harm you with it. I could feel it in my bones" Steeling herself, Maka moved reluctantly back into the room and gazed down at the dead woman. Her left hand was closed around something. Maka nudged it with her foot. A syringe spilled from her fingers and rolled across the blood-spattered carpet. Maka shivered. "Maka, try to summon me out." Neither of them expected it to work. It didn't. "Remove the comforter from the bed and cover the body with it." Gingerly, she did so. It didn't help much. Instead of a dead body in the same room with her that she could see, now there was a dead body in the same room with her she couldn't see, and that creeped her out even more. Everybody knew villains never really died. Just when you thought you were safe, they got up again, eyes terrifying abysses, arms sickly groping for you like in Night of the Living Dead. "Go bathe, Maka." Soul said gently, seeing that she was very close to the edge of insanity.

Maka didn't move. She wasn't about to go off and get in the shower, only to end up having a Psycho moment. "She's dead, lass. I swear. She was human, nothing out of the ordinary. Now go bathe," he said in a voice that brooked no resistance. "I will protect you." He promised solemnly. "Go." After searching those bottomless eyes a moment, Maka went. 

X X X X X X X X X X

Near dawn on Friday, October thirteenth, Maka stared into the mirror, blew out an exasperated breath, and muttered the spell to release Soul for the gazillionth time. It finally worked. Hours had passed since the long, scalding shower she'd taken, using up two entire bars of those little pink soaps. Soul had kept her occupied with tales of life in the ninth century. He'd told her about his mother who tried in vain to marry him off to every young thing in a frock. How he had never really known his father, always being away on clan business. He'd spoken in great, loving detail of his castle in the mountains, and of the sloping glens and sparkling burns surrounding it. It was obvious he'd adored his home, his family, and his clan. He'd told her of the deep purple heather that grew wild along the hillsides and so fragrantly scented a fire; he spoke at length of the savory Scots meals that he'd been missing for centuries. His words had brought the Highlands brilliantly to life in her mind's eye, and the constant purr of his deep rich burr had soothed. She knew he'd been trying to keep her from going nuts while killing time in a room with a dead body, and it had worked.

As the shock of yet another attempt on her life and Soul's swift dispatch of the would-be assassin faded, Maka faced the cold, hard facts. Fact: The woman had intended to kill her. Fact: One of them had to go.

Fact: Maka was glad it hadn't been her. Problem: In a short time, she'd be slinking out of a room that had blood splattered all over it, leaving a dead body in it. Even if they somehow managed to get the body out of the room—and she couldn't see how they could possibly sneak it from the hotel without being seen—there was no way they could get rid of all the blood.

Fact: She was now a fugitive. That was the fact that could make her nuts. PhD, life, future—all of it gone to hell. What was she going to do now? She had a sudden, horrible vision of herself at some point in the not-so-distant future, calling her Dad from a strange, frightening foreign country where the beetles and roaches were the size of small rats, trying to assure Spirit Albarn that she really hadn't done whatever the police were saying she'd done. On top of it all, she didn't even have clothes to sneak out of the hotel in. Though she'd been able to get some of the blood out of her jeans, her sweater was a lost cause. Though her panties had been salvageable, her bra was not. She could hardly walk out into downtown Chicago in the blanket she was wearing. One might be able to pull that kind of thing off in New York City, but not in Shy-town.

As brilliant golden light blazed from those mysterious runes on the frame, and the sensation of spatial distortion grated across her already frayed nerve endings, she tugged the blanket more securely around her. Maka began to push herself up from where she'd been sitting, cross-legged, on the bed, as far back against the wall as possible, so she could pretend the lump on the floor wasn't there. Soul emerged from the mirror at last.

Suddenly, he was standing beside her. Before she could so much as squeak a protest, he cupped her shoulders, dragged her against his body, crushing her against his chest. He kissed her on the forehead, then dropped her back onto the bed. He looked at her a moment, as if contemplating the wisdom of his next action, then he plucked her back up and kissed her on the mouth, hard fast, and deep. This time he drew her into his arms, one arm around her waist, the other hand palming the back of her head, and kissed her deeply and passionately. Maka felt like she was sizzling like an iron on the High Mist/Steam setting. She clung to him, taking all he was giving. Sinking into his body, absorbing the steel and heat of the man. Why not indulge a little? Her life was pretty turned upside down at the moment, kissing a man from a mirror, in a blood splattered hotel room. When he released her this time, she plopped back down on the bed, kissed breathless. She felt infinitely better than she had moments ago, as if some of his formidable strength had seeped into her through their kiss. God knew the man had strength enough to spare. He stared down at her, his crimson gaze narrowed with desire and something else, something she simply couldn't quite define; an emotion that eluded her. It almost seemed like regret, but that made no sense to her. What could he possibly be regretting? When he lifted his hand and traced the backs of his knuckles up her cheek, slipping his fingers into the short blonde curls at her temple, she dismissed the odd thought from her mind. He threaded his fingers through her hair slowly, as if savoring the silky texture of each strand. It gave her a tiny chill, the lightness of his touch. The man was a walking dichotomy. Those powerful neck-snapping, knife-throwing hands that did murder without pause were equally capable of tenderness and delicacy. "Lock the door behind me when I leave, lass. I'll only be out for a short time. Doona open it for anyone but me. Will you listen to me for once?" Soul asked, his eyes pleading.

Maka opened her mouth to ask why, and what he was going to do, and just how he thought they were going to get out of the mess they were in, but he pressed the tip of his finger to her lips. "Time is truly of the essence," he said softly. "We never ken how much time I'll have before the mirror reclaims me. 'Tis action that will serve us best here, not words. Will you obey just this once, Maka?" She blew out a pent up breath and nodded. "Good lass." She stuck her tongue out at him. He gave her a faint, approving smile. "Keep your laughter, Maka. 'Tis a saving grace." Her thoughts exactly. He turned, scooped up the comforter with its bloody burden, and stalked from the room, closing the door behind him. "Lock it," came the soft, low command from the other side. Maka slid the bolt and flipped the latch. Only then did his footfalls fade down the hall.

X X X X X X X X X

Forty minutes later, Maka and Soul stepped in tandem from the elevator. He was holding her hand, and although she'd never considered herself much of a hand-holder, she thoroughly liked the feel of her small hand in Soul's strong one, and the snug interlacing of their fingers. She felt a little braver, having him so close. She glanced up at him and inhaled a swift, shallow breath. He was devastatingly attractive. He was wearing faded jeans and a much-washed black T-shirt. His kilt was tossed over a shoulder, and his knife sheath was strapped blatantly around his thigh, the lethal blade now cleaned and returned to its protective casing. Maka had tried telling him he couldn't wear it that way, that he'd get them arrested. He'd replied that she could save her breath because Soul obeyed no laws but his own. She'd not found that particularly surprising.

His body really stood out beneath the thin cotton fabric that clung tightly to every curve and hard line.

Considering that the clothing fit him, she wondered how he'd gotten it off of whomever he'd gotten it off of. It must have been one heck of a fight. Then there was the matter of the clothing he'd brought her . . . smelling of another woman's perfume. She had on hip-hugging Lucky jeans (with the cheeky words Lucky You stamped on the inside of her fly) that were X-treme Low Ride—as in, she sure wouldn't be sitting down with her backside facing a roomful of people anytime soon—and a white, V-necked sweater. Oh, well. Beggars couldn't be choosers. All she needed to do was get to her car and she could toss a jacket over it. When Soul had returned to the room and thrust the bundle of clothing into her hands, she'd exclaimed, Where did you get— "Hush," he'd said instantly. "Dress and move. We must accomplish as much as possible as quickly as possible. When the glass reclaims me, we will have time to talk then."

Okay. She'd shrugged. She knew she couldn't extricate herself from her current problems. Maybe he could. He'd already managed to accomplish two things she'd not thought she'd had a snowball's chance in hell of accomplishing: body disposal and clothing procuring. The lobby was nearly deserted at this early hour.

As they stepped into the long, gleaming foyer, her attention was drawn by a ripped, steroid-bulked man standing at the front desk with his arm around a sultry blonde who didn't look nearly as distraught as he. Coincidentally, he looked like exactly the kind of guy who might wear a black muscle hugging T-shirt. The man was shouting furiously at two desk clerks. Good, Maka thought. She couldn't shake the paranoid feeling that any moment now a police officer was going to appear out of thin air and arrest them. Any distraction was a welcome one. Hopefully the clerks would be so busy dealing with the irate brute that they wouldn't notice her and Soul skulking out. Although, with a six-and-a-half-foot-tall mirror tucked beneath his arm, nothing shouted skulking. Soul's hand tightened on hers. "Hurry, lass." She picked up the pace, jouncing jauntily along. "I'm telling you, the man is one of your guests. I watched him go back up on the elevator. The son of a bitch took our clothes!" the man shouted.

Maka blinked. Eyed the man and his wife. Glanced down at herself. Glanced up at Soul. He shrugged sheepishly. "Not all of them. I left them their undergarments." When her brows rose, he added, "They were our size. We needed clothing. I suspected they had more, and look, they do. I ran into them in the elevator. Keep walking, lass." They were halfway across the lobby when the man abruptly threw his hands up in exasperation and whirled around. Oh no, here it comes, Maka thought, stiffening. We're screwed. Now he'll call the cops. We're going to jail. "There he is!" the man roared furiously. "That's the prick who made my wife take off her clothes!" Maka noticed the sultry blonde wasn't looking too terribly upset by it, not nearly as upset as her husband seemed to be. Maka looked at Soul and he blushed back at her." She had a sudden vision of the pretty woman stripping down to her panties and bra in front of Soul and had the weirdest urge to go punch her. As if anything was the blond woman's fault.

"You will be silent and cease looking at us. The four of you will turn and face the wall. Now," Soul said coolly. Maka rolled her eyes. Obviously Soul had been some kind of aristocrat or member of the ruling class in his time. A feudal lord, maybe, perhaps even a relation to one of the ancient Pict kings, or Kenneth MacAlpin himself. He behaved like a tyrannical dictator, expecting the world to obey his slightest whims. Cease looking at us, indeed!

"Oh, please, you don't really think they're going to—" Maka scoffed, only to break off in stunned disbelief. Four people had just turned, as one, to face the wall behind the Check-In desk, without uttering so much as another peep. Not a curse, not a protest, not even an ill-concealed, disgruntled sigh. She blinked at the bizarre sight. Then gaped up at Soul. Then back at the obedient little sheep. "You will not attempt to follow us when we leave," Soul added. "You will remain silent and unmoving until well after we're gone." His words reminded her of the way he'd dispatched Marcus in the hallway, how he'd ordered the valets about and dominated the desk clerk when they'd checked in. How was he doing it? What was Soul? "Come, lass," he said. She stood rooted to the ground for a moment, assessing herself suspiciously, trying to decide whether she was feeling, in the least little way, compelled in some strange way to obey him. Nope. She inched away from him, just to be sure. Tipped up her nose defiantly. Made a face at him. She felt just like her usual self, chock-full of free will. But apparently they weren't, she thought, looking at people at the desk again. "What did you do to them?" Maka demanded. "It would require a lengthy explana—" "I know, I know," she interrupted peevishly, "and we don't have time, right? Fine. Just tell me this: Could you make them erase all records of my having been here from their computers?" He looked perplexed a moment, then slow understanding dawned in his blood eyes. "Ah, you mean so you cannot be linked to the blood-stained room! Aye, I can do that. You need to guide me, though. There is still a lot about your century that eludes me." They hastened to the desk, where Maka told him what to do. He issued a series of terse commands to the clerks, and Maka watched in abject fascination as they complied without hesitation, pulling up their files for the room. They rescinded all credit transactions, deleted all records, and wiped her clean from the hotel's memory banks. Whatever he was doing and however he was doing it, the man packed a serious punch in the charismatic persuasion department. There was one great big problem solved. Gone were Maka's visions of oversized beetles and roaches, and calling her Papa from some Third-World country. As they were finishing up, Maka stepped away from Soul and circled around him to stare at the big man and his wife. They were motionless, silent, staring at the wall. Their eyes had the same glazed, eerily vacant expression as the clerk's. Somehow she'd overlooked that before, too, probably because she'd always been too busy looking at the sexy Highlander to really notice much about the people around him.

"What did you do to them? How?" Tucking the mirror back beneath his arm, he took her hand. "Not now, lass. We must make haste." " 'Not now,' " she grumbled. "How come whenever I have questions, it's always 'not now'? Will it ever be now?" Soul smiled cheekily at her as he towed her out the door. "Make haste, woman."

X X X X X X X X X 

NOTES:  
I must first apologize for the long delay on this chapter. It is a very busy time of the year for me at work. Trees don't just plant themselves ya know!  
To make up for the delay though, I have written a short and steamy little Soul/Maka oneshot for your viewing pleasures ;). Well.. it's not exactly short. I always intend to make them short, but you know me. Once I get writing the creative vomit just won't stop!  
So if you're intrigued, go check it out! It'll be under Audacious Surrender.   
Much love my to my fellow fanfiction comrades. I hope you enjoy :)


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